A Bard's Tale
by gabbicav
Summary: Bards spin words to win the hearts of men and mer, and Celeste Passero studies with the best at the College in Solitude. But when Ulfric Stormcloak uses his voice to murder the High King, forcing Skyrim into war with the Empire, Celeste finds herself the subject of a legend to inspire the greatest bard's tale ever told; if only she could find her voice to sing it. A Skyrim story.
1. The Murder of High King Torygg

_Chapter 1: The Murder of High King Torygg_

The afternoon was calm and the breeze was pleasantly crisp. The skies over Solitude were clear of snow clouds for once, but a bite to the air brought with it a promise of a frosty evening to come.

"Which song will you start with?" father asked as we walked up the incline toward the Blue Palace.

I glanced at him; was he really interested, or making idle conversation? We had seen little of him in the past three weeks. First he'd been in Whiterun on Thane business, which he had frustratingly refused to elaborate on, and then he had attended on the High King up at the Palace since he had returned.

His sea-blue eyes were trained on the path ahead; more distracted than he should have been if he wanted to talk.

I humoured him, regardless; "I thought I would begin with _Matthild Built This Place_. Master Viarmo had no complaints, and Ataf agreed that it's benign enough for the Palace crowd."

Father nodded thoughtfully, his eyes sparkling as he turned to regard me. The distraction I had caught a moment ago was gone. "A strong song about a strong woman. But is the melody not too plain for you?"

I smiled at father's compliment and shook my head. "Ataf and I have been collaborating, expanding on-"

"Ah," he cut me off with a sigh as we reached the gate. "There's that name Ataf again," he rolled his eyes, but in good humour. "I shall have to make a visit to this Ataf, if I hear his name many more times in my house."

I frowned as I dipped a small curtsy to the Haafingar guards on duty as we stepped into the courtyard. They nodded back, though seemed rather bored, slouched against the grey-brick wall. The garden was overgrown with too many wild thistles amongst the shrubbery, but the intended lines were still there, and the thistles gave the order a little wild chaos, which was more pleasing for its disarray.

"You know it's not like that, father," I insisted. "He was helping to expand on the story, nothing more. Ataf has trouble with music, but his talent with cadence and written word is enviable when it comes to heightening the tension in a tale. Everyone at the College values his -"

"You do not need to validate your acquaintances to me," he insisted loftily, cutting me off again. "I trust _your_ judgment, Celeste. But you cannot blame a father for being skeptical of a man's intentions with regards to his daughter."

I wasn't fooled by his aloofness. _Great_ , I thought, adjusting my lute strap around my shoulder and hip. _Now father thinks I'm chasing boys at the College; or that they're chasing me._ Perhaps if I didn't reply, the matter would drop.

Because neither was true. The College was for professional bards who wanted to learn and train in the arts of music-making and story-telling, not _dalliances_.

"Hail, Thane Passero," the doors to the Blue Palace were opened by one of the guards, and he called out to my father as he stepped over the threshold.

"Hail," father replied warmly and kindly, though his status didn't require him to reply to a soldier with anything.

I remained silent as they had not greeted me, and stepped into the entryway, keeping a single step behind my father. I trained my eyes forward and took a deep breath, holding myself up; determined not to stare.

 _I am a bard; I am an artist_ , I repeated to myself calmly. _I deserve to be here._

I was being given a great honour that evening. I was performing for the High King and Queen, and their guests.

Yes, of course it had been engineered by my father, for as the High King's Thane, he had influence over who might be chosen to entertain at the Blue Palace. I knew it, and everybody at the College knew it. There had been little asked on the matter of why I, the youngest member of the Bard's College, was performing in court. More attention had been given to my choice of songs and poems so that I might bring further esteem to the College. Master Viarmo had drilled me full of appropriate ballads a week earlier, and when I had told him I intended on beginning with _Matthild,_ the Altmer had huffed and said nothing.

This was all anyone could expect by way of approval from the Headmaster, and his praise would be hard won and given only _after_ my performance was reported on by the other courtiers; perhaps even the High King or Queen themselves, if they deemed it worthy enough.

Giselle had been intolerable when she had heard of my good fortune. My twin had thrown a proper tantrum like a two-year-old, despite being a woman of nineteen; accusing our 'unfair' father of giving me opportunities to make connections at the Palace, and her none.

Mother had sided with Giselle as usual, asking father if this would not be a worthy opportunity to introduce Giselle to Sybille Stentor, but father had calmly replied that this was to be my moment, and that my twin might have hers another day. My sister had only been placated once she'd been promised a trip to Radiant Raiment to be fitted for a new set of robes while father and I were up at the Palace.

I hid my amusement at the memory of Giselle and mother leaving for their shopping trip, both wearing smug yet mutinous expressions, and tried not to let my snotty sister's competitive attitude seep into and effect my calm. _Focus. Giselle will be back in Winterhold soon, and won't be your problem until the next term break._

Besides, it wasn't _my_ fault that Giselle came home from the College of Winterhold at _every_ opportunity and immediately complained about how bored she was in Solitude, as though _Winterhold_ , of all places, was the height of society! She could stay at the College with her friends if she wished, or even travel abroad if she liked. With my mother's parents living in Wayrest and my father's in the Imperial City, several regions of Tamriel were open to both of us to explore.

I had never taken to travel; promising myself that I would only roam once I had completed my studies, so that what I found could be properly transformed into ballads worthy of each source of inspiration. And in truth, a part of me was in no hurry to leave Solitude; despite our lineage, Skyrim was, and always would be my home.

I hoped. My smile levelled out. There had been rumours of greater dissent amongst the Jarls recently. Father had assured us it was a small conflict that would be resolved at a table, not on a battlefield, but I was not so certain. Though the bard's tales I had been learning all of my life, and performing for the past three years since I had become a student of the College, were largely overdramatised, they had taught me much about the way a Nord settled disputes. The bawdy _Ragnar the Red_ was a prime example; the shield-maiden Matilda engaging Ragnar for merely talking too much, and striking his head from his shoulders as penalty for his boasting.

I shuddered for summoning that loathsome tune, and began quietly humming the melody to _Matthild_ to resolutely push _Ragnar_ out. It was always, _always_ , requested at performances; there was not a bard in the whole College who didn't have a level of disdain for that particular dirge.

 _They will not request it here,_ I assured myself. And, regardless of the habits and preferences of the rabble; the Jarls of Skyrim were unlikely to resort to an expensive war if it could be avoided. It would serve nobody to do so.

Father smiled warmly as he turned to offer me his arm. I rested my hand in his elbow as I smiled in thanks and continued humming.

"Hmm. It is lovelier than I remember it sounding," he noted pleasantly.

My chest glowed with pride. Even if I didn't manage to win the hearts and minds of the courtiers or the King or Queen with my offering, at least I could sing for my father.

The staircase leading up to the reception room arced gracefully around an indoor garden full of verdant green ferns and plump red snowberries, and was flanked by large marble urns brimming with bright purple deathbells. This was not my first visit to the Blue Palace, though it was the first time I would perform, and it was the first I had seen of the deathbells.

I smiled again, pleased with my choice of dress; I had inadvertently managed to coordinate with the Palace's current interior decor. My eyes were the same blue as father's, and the shade matched the blue of the accent stones set into the Palace's namesake tiles. My hair was wound into a high plaited bun, comparable to the brown of the strips of dark stone that criss-crossed the floor. Finally my straight, woollen, beige dress was edged in fine lines of red and purple ribbon, reminiscent of the snowberries and deathbells that decorated the hall.

Mother had approved of my hair, but had told me that the dress was too drab and last season, and had tried to press some horrible blue number with fur around the collar and hem onto me at the last minute. But I had insisted that the beige dress had been chosen by my teacher, as it suited my performance, so I was not at liberty to change.

It hadn't been, but as a bard I often found it was simpler to spin whatever was required to avoid disagreements with mother, rather than engage, _especially_ when it involved fashion. Her tastes were so _garish_ , and so pompously High Rock. I preferred a more traditional Nord style, particularly when I was about to perform a traditional programme of Nord songs.

The reception room was shorter than I remembered it being, but perhaps it was an illusion created by the number of tables and chairs clustered throughout it. I hastily averted my eyes from the throne, where the handsome High King Torygg sat next to his pretty wife, Queen Elisif the Fair. What I _did_ see during my fleeting glance made laughter bubble in my chest, though I was able to restrain myself in time. Queen Elisif, only five years my senior, was wearing the exact same blue dress that my mother had tried to make me wear that afternoon. And despite the dress being tailored specifically for her, it did not suit her frame; rather, it completely obscured it.

 _That could have been embarrassing,_ I thought, as I followed father to the tables to the right of the throne where the Thanes positioned themselves during sessions. Lady Bryling pursed her lips and gave me a speculative once-over as she nodded a curt hello, her armour more dress-like than functional, and Lord Erikur's eyes were guarded as they raked over me; his fur robe a little shabbier than a Thane would usually allow.

I dipped respectful bows to them as was required of me, and then we ignored one another. As the daughter of their equal, and as my father had made it public that neither my sister nor I were to be courted until we had completed our studies to his satisfaction, I was of no interest to them.

I unstrapped my lute before I lowered myself onto the seat father indicated I should take. It was next to a small table arranged with a bottle of water and another of wine, the latter my father's favourite vintage, and a platter of fruits.

Father took his seat the other side of the table and engaged Thane Bryling in quiet conversation, leaving me to my preparations. He would introduce me to the High King and Queen once everybody had arrived, I supposed.

Several other courtiers arrived while I fine-tuned my lute for what must have been the hundredth time that day. I recognised most of those who gathered, though none paid me any mind. Lady Vici arrived last in a green number and wearing a gold and ruby circlet around her thin head as though she were a queen; paying the Thanes no mind and immediately hovering around Falk Firebeard, the Queen's steward. I hid a smirk at the woman's audacity and lowered my head to listen closer to the quiet notes I was picking out on my lute.

When it was finally time to begin, the High King stood.

"Welcome, my honoured friends and guests," his voice brought a calm to the hall. My fingers stilled immediately and I gave the High King my full attention.

He continued addressing the assembly, outlining the itinerary of the proceedings, and I waited with baited breath, wondering if my father was not to introduce me at all; if the High King would speak my name when he mentioned the evening's entertainments. Nerves pooled in my belly, and I revelled in it; they always managed to sharpen my focus.

The High King's robes of office clung to his shoulders and hung around his form; his red hair long, and swept back, and his beard trimmed neatly. What I liked most about High King Torygg was his eyes; kind, and pale blue, like a cloudless winter's sky at midday. The man was very good looking, and I felt a flush rise in my cheeks when I remembered my father was sitting _right_ next to me. He would be relentless in his mocking if he had any inkling of where my thoughts had taken me.

I turned away from the High King of Skyrim as movement captured my, and most of the room's, attentions. High King Torygg's voice trailed off and a heavy silence filled the room.

A pair of men were walking toward the thrones, and when they stepped into the light I recognised the one in the lead as the Jarl of Windhelm, Ulfric Stormcloak. I had never met the man, but I had seen him about Solitude occasionally. There was no mistaking him or the air of arrogance that accompanied his every move. He was as large as a bear, with windswept blonde hair flowing around a chiselled face like an unruly mane. Behind him strode a fearsome, grizzled older man wearing what looked like an entire bear's pelt over his leather armour. The poor beast's head had even been fashioned into headgear. The man's name eluded me, but it was clear from his stance and expression that he meant _business_.

Father must have noticed my unease, for his hand landed on my arm. I tore my eyes from the two intimidating men to stare at him.

"Relax, Celeste," he said in a lowered voice. "They may look fierce, but it is merely their way. They are-"

"Torygg," Ulfric's voice cut over my father's; a booming baritone that commanded all eyes in the room to bear witness.

There were gasps at Ulfric's lack of respect; his neglect to call High King Torygg by his title.

My eyes flitted quickly to the High King and Queen. Queen Elisif always seemed tense, but she was suddenly as still as a startled rabbit, her eyes wide. I was relieved when I saw the High King's crossed brows smooth out, and his mouth cracked an attractive half-smile. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he held out his hands to the Jarl in greeting. "I am more pleased than you can imagine that you changed your mind. Welcome, my friend."

Jarl Stormcloak glared down at Torygg's offered arms, and in the weighty silence that followed, raised his cold, hard eyes to the High King's.

"Nothing has changed," the Jarl addressed him with a snarl.

I clutched my lute, only because it was in my arms, and shrank back into my seat at the ferocity behind his words. Why did these eastern Jarl's always insist on making a scene? It was clear that this was some sort of joke between the two of them, but it was damned frightening to the rest of us amidst the rumours of friction flitting about.

"Time changes all," the High King replied with a sigh and lowered his arms. "What is it that you need, Ulfric?" he added, in a tone of resigned disappointment.

"I need what all of Skyrim needs," Stormcloak spoke through clenched teeth.

With a startle I realised he was _restraining_ himself.

"A King who will fight for his people, not against them," he continued in what sounded like a well-prepared speech.

"Careful, Ulfric," Queen Elisif cut in sharply, though she remained seated. "You go too far."

 _It's not a joke,_ I realised in horror.

"Peace, both of you," High King Torygg tried to laugh it off, glancing between his wife and the angry Jarl. "Ulfric, join us – give me another chance to explain to you why Skyrim needs to work with the Empire."

The conversation paused again. There was a subtle shifting of bodies during it; the High King's housecarl inched closer to him and my father rose to sidle in front of me.

I peered around my father in a rush – terror was filling me, but I had to see what happened next.

The Jarl of Windhelm shook his head and his stern frown curled further down in distaste. "I can no longer stand by while the people of this land are impoverished by an Empire who cares nothing for them and a King who refuses to speak for them."

The High King's manner changed from patient and mediating to cold, very swiftly; the ice in his tone sending a chill down my spine. "What would you have me do? Declare war on them and cast our loved ones to the Imperial Legion's, or worse, the Dominion's armies?"

"Your cowardice at the prospect of battle is proof of your unworthiness to rule, boy," Ulfric Stormcloak grated.

There were louder gasps around the room now, my own amongst them. My father shifted his feet and positioned his hand over his sword handle, in readiness.

 _For what?!_

"You do not choose who rules this country, any more than I do," the High King reminded him. "I caution you to remember this, regardless of your intentions today."

 _What's going on?_ There was simply no way that Jarl Stormcloak could be allowed to say such treasonous things and get away with it. He would be replaced, that much was certain; perhaps even executed. What did he hope to achieve?

The room had grown cold, as though the doors had been left open to let the chill of twilight seep in. All eyes were locked on Ulfric Stormcloak to see how he would counter Torygg's warning. I prayed to the Divines he would relent, knowing in my heart that he wouldn't. It was not the Nord way.

The fearsomely large man narrowed his eyes, but his mouth – that perpetually down-turned mouth – rose at one corner in a smirk, as though he had gotten exactly what he had wanted from the High King.

" _Fus_ ," Ulfric's reply left him in a whisper, but the walls of the palace _trembled_.

I gripped my lute tighter as his foreign word reverberated through me and, deep within my soul, the word _force_ pounded and echoed in my ears. My eyes widened as the High King _bowed_ before Ulfric Stormcloak. The Jarl's _voice_ had somehow pushed the High King down onto one knee. I willed Torygg to rise and call for his guard and end this. The stewards, Thanes and housecarls all leapt into action and Queen Elisif cried out in horror for him to stop.

"Don't, Ulfric," High King Torygg gasped, raising his eyes to the blonde man towering over him. The movement seemed to cause him a great amount of pain. "You will cast Skyrim into a war that-"

Ulfric cut in over whatever the High King might have said.

" _Ro-DAH!_ "

The walls of the Palace shook again with a greater ferocity than before. I startled up out of my chair as the same deep, thrumming thump in my head came again, only the words were different now; _balance,_ and _push_.

High King Torygg was flung off his feet and toppled against his own throne, flopping against it like a rag-doll. Before anyone could act, the Jarl of Windhelm surged forward, sweeping aside his cloak and grabbing the short sword that hung on his hip.

"No," I whispered, my eyes glued to the High King. "Please, get up," I willed in a voice that none would have heard over the mounting uproar.

As the housecarls nearest the High King and Queen leapt to their defence, the bear-clad man behind Stormcloak surged into action with an ear-shattering roar of his own; though this one didn't make the walls rattle, or topple anyone.

As the bear-wearing man swung his axe in a wide arc to keep the attendants from stopping Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm plunged his blade up into the crippled High King, straight through the centre of his chest.

In the confusion that followed, there was screaming that came to me through a whole lot of hazy panic. In what should have been the crowning glory of my otherwise short career, I knew I was about to die, and silently begged the Divines for mercy. If only I had not chosen to become a bard. If only I had gone to Winterhold with Giselle. If I had trained to be a mage I might have been able to help the people flying and falling around me. But I could only stare, and grip my lute in front of me, and pray.

My father turned back as he drew his sword, yelling for me to run deeper into the Palace. At the same moment my attention snapped to the double staircase leading up to the reception room as it was choked by large, fierce guards, all wearing the Windhelm blue.

Most surrounded Ulfric Stormcloak, and spirited him away, while a handful remained to continue fighting with the enormous bear-wearing Nord.

I managed to scuttle to the hallway leading into the Palace when a scream of pain, barely discernible over the other sounds of battle, made me whip around.

It was my father. I stilled as I watched his sword fall from his grip and clatter on the stone floor before his feet. The bear-clad man who had flanked Ulfric withdrew his war axe from my father's chest.

My father fell to his knees but his murderer had already turned away, rallying the Windhelm guards to his side as they fought their way to the exit. Fury and fear warred within me and I found myself back in the reception room and on my knees next to my fallen father.

Any words I could have uttered to ease his passing into the afterlife; be it to Sovngarde as Thane of the High King who had died in battle, or to Aetherius with our ancestors; failed to come. He was already gone. The bear-clad one had cut so deep that a small relief coiled through my otherwise surging grief; it had been quick, and he had not suffered.

While the usurpers fled the Palace and the High Queen was spirited away by her Thanes; while the stewards and Haafinger soldiers guarded the fallen High King; while my spirit both simultaneously died and blazed with a white-hot indignation and a vow to avenge my father's death, I watched, unable to cry, and held his slackened hand. His blood seeped into my dress and stockings and flowed around my lute by my side.

Once the clamour had ceased, somebody retrieved me. They extracted my hand from father's and picked up my lute. I heard someone speaking words, words about the Temple of the Divines and preparations, from across the room.

When I turned to see who had taken my hand, I met my sister's widened eyes. Her face was as white as a sheet and stained with tears, and her dark hair, usually so neat and enchanted to be perfectly straight every morning hung limply around her cheeks in disarray.

" _Giselle_ ," I choked hopelessly and embraced her, stopping to hug her on the curved staircase landing.

My sister clung to me, quaking in my arms.

"When I - I thought you were dead," she told me through a sob. "All I could think about was how we had parted, about how I had _envied_ you and-"

"It's all right," I cut in, holding her more securely for a moment before I withdrew. "We couldn't have known."

"It's not all right," Giselle's gaze flickered to our fallen father; her lower lip trembling. "I didn't say good bye, Celeste. I barely said good morning to him. I was so angry."

 _Oh. Oh of course._ She was already making what had happened about her. She was trying to be nice – that much was plain – and any observing us would say that we were both in shock.

But her words brushed over me with that detached selfishness she always carried about with her, and I bristled as I understood that she had not come to the Palace to retrieve me at all. She had said it herself; she had thought I was dead. She had brought herself to the Palace to gather information about what had happened, to satisfy her own curiosity, to use what she found here as fodder for gossip with her friends.

I scowled and turned hastily, descending the stairs. "Does mother know?"

My words were shorter than I meant them to sound.

Giselle kept by my side and shrugged helplessly in the corner of my eye. "I'm not sure," she sighed heavily, still recovering from her tears. "I was at Lord Erikur's, talking to Melaran, when he charged in and told us."

When we reached the exit to the Palace, she passed me my lute roughly. "Why am I still carrying this?" she asked in frustration.

 _Calm down,_ I told myself as I reclaimed my lute and held it against me protectively. _She's upset, you're upset. The last thing you need is an argument._

I wanted to snip at her, _desperately_ wanted to, as though doing so might ease the pain. But I resisted the urge and glanced down to my beloved instrument instead. There were spots and smears of deep red marring the finely-polished wood. I hurriedly slung it around me and marched across the courtyard. My sister didn't bother trying to keep up with me this time.

My breath created puffs of white in the calm of the evening, and I glared up at the clear, starry sky.

 _Skyrim is without a High King_ , I told myself plainly. This would mean war. The Empire would not – _could_ not – ignore what had happened, and those loyal to Ulfric would rally to fight for him as he tried to make himself king. As though the murderer had a _right_ to rule Skyrim.

 _And your father is dead because of him._

I breathed the frigid air in and felt tiny flecks of ice on the breeze cut into my throat and burn through my lungs. It did little to distract me.

 _He's dead._

I reached Proudspire and Giselle was barely two steps behind me. I realised as I stared at the entrance that we had not passed my mother. She might not have been notified yet. That meant I would have to tell her what had happened, and that she would get to blame me.

 _Where is she,_ I wondered furiously, preparing for the argument to come.

Giselle's scream made my breath catch in my throat and my anger fled. My head spun as I whirled around and saw my sister staring in anguish at a small, crumpled figure in the garden.

The shadows of night made it difficult to make out what it was at first glance, but Giselle's cry had made it obvious who it was. While my sister seemed frozen to the spot wearing her mask of terror, I leaped toward the figure, crashing down onto my already-battered knees as I gingerly turned the head-shaped part of the collapsed body toward us.

I stared down at our mother in wan disbelief. Her brown eyes were fixed on me in fear and her mouth was partially open, in what might have once been an attempt to scream. Her dark hair tumbled out of its bindings, and felt sticky in places.

"Don't touch her!"

Giselle was by my side in an instant, pushing me forcefully out of the way as she took my place by our mother's side. I fell onto my back at the force of her shove and my lute cracked ominously under me. The shock of seeing our mother dead and forgotten in our front garden – _and for what reason?!_ \- dulled me to everything else; my sister's actions; what the cracking might mean for the lute father had gifted me when I had been accepted into the Bard's College; even the mud squelching between my fingers where they splayed on the ground beneath me.

As my twin threw herself over mother's form and sobbed, I sat where I had fallen and glanced idly around the garden. Guilt poured into me. I had been steeling myself for a fight with her, and she had been dead. The woman who had brought me into the world, who had loved me despite our disagreements, was _gone_.

The lanterns that usually lit the garden had been extinguished, but I caught a flicker of movement that shouldn't have been there anyway; something stringy, flapping on the high rock wall. I turned my eyes down to push myself up, and noticed what I should have registered earlier.

The grass had been trampled.

I eased up as I sauntered toward the high wall between our home and the Sea of Ghosts, and caught the gently flapping material as it flickered within reach, tugging it down from the briar it had been caught on.

Of course it was blue. The blue of Windhelm. The blue that the soldiers with Ulfric Stormcloak had worn.

I clenched the material in my fist and turned back to my grieving sister. How in the act of assassinating Skyrim's High King had the usurper had managed to uncaringly murder _both_ of our parents? It was _absurd_. Things like this only happened in Bard's tales, and even then were the work of vague legends fluffed up by artistic license.

I left my sister where she was, knowing that she would not want me to comfort her. It was difficult enough putting one foot in front of the next. I retreated through a haze to my bedroom, and dully glanced around it, taking in the surrounds.

Unslinging my lute, I wondered when I would turn into a sobbing wreck like Giselle. The wood clunked and cracked in a way that it shouldn't have; I frowned and turned my attention to it.

Then I finally saw that when Giselle had pushed me, I had landed on it heavily enough to splinter the entire body. The tailpiece had fractured and the strings hung limply by the pegs, frayed where they had snapped.

The emptiness I had been feeling somehow broadened. With a shaking hand, I placed it on my armchair and made myself look at the lute properly, to assess the damage. It was recoverable. It _had_ to be recoverable.

I rose and backed away, unable to tear my gaze from my shattered, beloved lute. Yes, someone at the College would help me fix it. I swallowed a lump in my throat as the backs of my knees met my bed edge. Nodding for emphasis, I leant back, flopping onto the covers, to stare at the ceiling. I could smell blood - I was reeking of it - but I didn't have the will to move. If I was on my bed, perhaps the past few hours had been nothing but a horrible nightmare.

 _Samuel and Aleine Passero are dead_ , I reminded myself sternly. _Tonight_ y _ou watched Ulfric's man cut your father down. You found Windhelm colours snagged on your garden wall. You did not dream it._

For hours I tried to push away the thoughts tormenting me that insisted on replaying the incident again and again. Eventually, I accepted that sleep would not come, so I rose and lit a candle at my desk.

And I wrote. I scribbled furiously in my journal, documenting the night's events, hoping that if I put it to paper the bard within me would be satisfied, and let me rest.

Documenting historical events was what I had pledged to do, in a sense; to pass along our history through fable and song. We twisted the truth as we liked to make a better story; one that might inspire love or hope or clemency in the hearts of men and mer.

But I would not distort the truth of this tale, and I knew that while I wrote it, I would never sing it. If some bard in the future chose to twist my words to suit their song, so be it. But I would be faithful to the story. I would tell any who would listen to me what had truly happened at the Blue Palace on the night that Ulfric Stormcloak murdered High King Torygg.

Where was Giselle, and what would become of her studies? I mused dimly over my sister's future at a pause in my writing. Had she come into the house or was she still in the garden with...?

I shook my head, lowering my eyes to my journal. No, I doubted she would return to the College straight away given Winterhold's allegiance to Ulfric. Perhaps she and I would live in Proudspire together, for a time. Perhaps we wouldn't kill each other in that time.

The thought of losing Giselle struck me and I sucked in a breath as though I'd been struck, lowering my quill. I stared at my shaking hands and realised that I didn't care what she did next because all I cared about was that she lived.

I pushed aside my journal and stared at what I had written. The strange, foreign words that Ulfric Stormcloak had spoken to the High King, staggering and then throwing him across the room, glared up at me. I peered back at them with a confused frown.

 _Fus, Ro, Dah_.

 _Force, balance, push_. They'd flown effortlessly from the Jarl of Windhelm's lips like a terrible song, and their effects had shaken the very world around us, and changed it forever. I recalled the odd, thudding whisper Stormcloak's words had pushed through my mind, rasping up from deep within when they had been spoken. A bard would give anything to be able to move their audience with three little syllables.

 _If it takes me the rest of my days,_ I vowed with a scowl, _I will find some way to use these words against him._

* * *

 _A/n: There I was, working hard at my original fic after completing To the Last Septim when Celeste pounced on me and demanded that her story be told. There is no need for yet another Skyrim fanfiction but she simply wouldn't take no for an answer. So, while I hope to avoid another 2-years-in-the-writing epic, here she is. The idea is to largely follow the Main, Civil War and Companions quest lines, and I'll tag more characters once they're integrated. Rated T for now, but as Skyrim is generally quite a violent place, it may go up to M later._


	2. Dividing an Empire

_Chapter 2: Dividing an Empire_

Speaking the words Ulfric Stormcloak had said yielded no effect. I tried using various pitches. I tried singing, whispering and hissing them, and emulating the tone and accent that I remembered him using. Nothing. Not even the candle flame on my desk gave a shudder.

When I couldn't figure out how the words worked on my own, I turned to my family's library. The key to figuring out what the Jarl of Windhelm had done would be in a book; if not one in Proudspire, then one at the Bard's College library.

Armed with a vague recollection of a Nord magic that used the voice, which had been touched upon during a history lesson at the College, I took a few likely tomes from the study back to my room, and began scanning their pages.

My eyes were scratchy and my head felt dull by the time I found something useful in the Skyrim Edition of _Pocket Guide to the Empire_ :

 _...The Nords have long practiced a spiritual form of magic known as "The Way of the Voice", based largely on their veneration of the Wind as the personification of Kynareth. Nords consider themselves to be the children of the sky, and the breath and the voice of a Nord is his vital essence. Through the use of the Voice, the vital power of a Nord can be articulated into a thu'um, or shout. Shouts can be used to sharpen blades or to strike enemies at a distance..._

I leaned forward and _thunked_ my forehead onto the open book. Of course. Ulfric Stormcloak had used a Shout, a thu'um.

If I wanted to harness the same power he had used, I would need to study this ancient Nord magic. It was not an impossible goal, but it would take time – time that I did not wish to waste while Ulfric and his Stormcloak army destroyed our way of life. Now that I had a name, I recalled more from my lessons; mastering even the most simple of Shouts took years of dedicated meditation.

As I mused over this quandary, I noticed movement in the corner of my eye, and glanced up hastily. Giselle had floated to my room and was standing, wavering in the doorway.

She was a mess. Her dark hair was damp and curly with flecks of mud in it, and her robes had grass and mud stains down the front. But her face was clean and pinked in places, as though she had recently furiously scrubbed it.

 _What's she doing_ , I wondered?

"There's..." she muttered, then swallowed as her blue eyes fluttered closed.

I crossed my brows and stood, taking a tentative step toward her. Ulfric Stormcloak could take no more from us but each other, but still; "What else has happened?"

Giselle's eyes opened, and it was then as though she saw me properly; as though my voice had brought her back to herself. There was a hint of distaste marring her expression as she looked me up and down, and began again. "There's a man here from the Temple," she said, quietly, but still with an underlying barb, as though this were somehow all my fault. "He wants to speak to us both about...preparations," she glanced away from me, and her judgemental eyes travelled around my room.

What was she looking for? I couldn't remember the last time Giselle had been in my room, so perhaps she was simply noticing the changes. When we had been very little, we had bounced between each other's rooms all day, and sometimes a few times at night, if we needed each other.

 _That was a long time ago_ , I reminded myself. Since that time, my room had been rid of the toys and dress up clothes and filled with neat piles of journals, sheet music, history tomes and musical instruments. Treasures to me; worthless to her. Was I just as worthless, in her eyes?

Made uncomfortable by the prospect; for it might actually be _true_ ; I hastened forward. "Okay."

Giselle had left the man from the Temple of the Divines in the sitting room beside the entry. I didn't catch his name when he stood and introduced himself, but I didn't care as I took a chair and my sister sat in another.

The man – priest? - was young, and seemed very nervous as he explained that our parents had been shifted to the Temple and would be prepared for burial by the next evening. He advised that we might visit to pay our final respects at any time between now and then.

There was little required of us by way of response, and I wondered why he had asked to talk to us at all. When the priest paused long enough for me to notice the silence, I focused on him. He was glancing between the two of us with sympathy in his expression.

Perhaps he did require some sort of response. I nodded, and drew on my training to procure something generic.

"Thank you for telling us," I spoke. I had not intended it, but the sound that left my lips was deadpan. "We shall visit the Temple in that time."

I turned to Giselle for support, but my twin was silent and staring at the wall with glazed eyes, consumed by her own thoughts.

"There is one final matter I need to discuss with you both," the man's eyes flickered to Giselle momentarily, full of worry, before settling back on me. "And that is whether or not you have any requests, in regards to their burials."

I didn't understand what he meant. When I crossed my brows in confusion, he pressed on.

"For example, any special objects or pieces of jewellery, clothing and the like, that they might wish to be buried with, or in."

"No, nothing," Giselle quickly supplied in that quiet, sharp tone she had used in my room when she had collected me.

I flashed a glance of annoyance at her, but she was still staring at nothing.

"Your - your father's sword, for example," the man tried again. "Surely he would wish that to accompany him to-"

"He would not wish to be buried at all," Giselle snapped, lifting her head suddenly.

My breath caught in my throat in fear of the fire I saw in her eyes. Was she about to cast a spell?

" _Giselle_ ," I hissed in warning. The man was only doing his job; it was not _his_ fault that our parents had been taken from us.

Before I could apologise on her behalf, the man from the Temple stood and bowed his head. "I do apologise, Miss Passero," he murmured calmly. "This is not a pleasant duty for anyone to attend to, under any circumstances, let alone the one you find yourselves in today."

 _He must be a priest; he's said that before_. I stood as well, and motioned toward the door. "If we think of anything we will bring it with us when we come," I assured, then walked toward the entryway so he would have no choice but to follow. Giselle had been rude, but I abruptly wished he would leave us be.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. "Of course. My condolences, Miss Passeros," he bade us farewell.

"Thank you, Brother," I murmured, then closed the door behind him with a barely-audible click.

Facing the blue-steel door now that all was quiet, I let out a breath that I hadn't realised I'd been holding, and leaned forward. My forehead pressed against the metal and I closed my eyes, taking another long, shuddering breath.

Then I returned to Giselle. She was sitting where I had left her, and staring at nothing again. Placing a shaking hand on the door frame, I opened my mouth, determined to break the silence, though I had no idea of what to say.

Before I could say a word, she turned her tear-filled eyes up to regard me. The accusation I found in her blue depths, so like our father's eyes, brought a flush to my cheeks. _I had not murdered them!_

 _But she wants to blame someone. Of course she blames you._

"I don't want us to fight any more," the words tumbled out of my mouth. "They wouldn't have wanted to leave us, but they-"

"Don't pretend to know what they wanted," Giselle cut in, her voice low and quiet. "You're as bad as that priest, aren't you?"

"This - _this_ is what I'm talking about," I waved my hand toward her. "They would want us to _help_ each other, but you are determined to hate me."

I expected my sister to snap back, but she surprised me; turning her head down as her eyes clenched shut. Shorter strands of hair fell to cover her eyes.

It took me a moment to realise that she was crying. The sound of her quiet sobs broke something in me, but I didn't – couldn't – cry with her. She just made me angry, more angry than was reasonable under any circumstances. We had _work_ to do – our parents _deserved_ a proper burial – and she was sitting here crying as though we had time for such a thing. Which meant that I would have to do all of the work.

I turned and left her there and strode back to the door. Fury coursed through me and my face and ears burned. I stormed outside and gulped down breaths of cool morning air with relief.

Any other sisters would have mourned the loss of their parents together, but Giselle? No, she was determined to grieve on her own, and determined to drive us further from each other.

 _Not that you are any better_ , I told myself snidely as I leaned against the door and glanced up to the sky. _Your sister was in tears, and you yelled at her then thought only of how her emotions affected you._

I blinked hurriedly, pushing my thoughts aside roughly, and wondered why I hadn't been able to cry yet. I should have cried rivers by now. But then, there had been no time to cry while my emotions tumultuously bounced between shock and anger – a fierce, white-hot anger, sharper than anything I had ever felt.

The sky was dull and grey, and full of low clouds. The greyness was like a blanket to my fury, muffling it. As I focussed on my breaths, as though I was preparing for a performance, I felt my anger slip away on the passing sea breeze.

 _How could we have let things grow so sour between us_ , I wondered? Even when I had told Giselle that I didn't want us to fight, I had said it out of guilt over our parents, not for our own benefit. Of _course_ I didn't know what they wished, but surely no parent would want their children to be at war with each other?

 _Time changes all._

The High King's defeated words to Ulfric Stormcloak thrummed through me. After a moment's consideration, I nodded. Yes, time would change all, be it for better or worse, and given today's little performance, I doubted that we would need to endure each other's company for much longer anyway.

But today was not for fighting with Giselle, or for making any rash decisions about our futures. Today was for saying good bye, and that was all.

–

If only it had been that simple.

Perhaps under any other circumstances, Giselle and I would have been left to our grief and been allowed to visit and pay our final respects to our parents in private.

But within twenty minutes of the man from the Temple leaving, a pair of soldiers from the Imperial barracks arrived to escort me to Castle Dour. I had thought for a moment that I was being _arrested_ , but realised when I was shown into an interview chamber with a tired-looking Legate Caesennius in attendance that I was there as a witness. And, as one of the only surviving witnesses of the High King's murder and the usurper Ulfric's escape, I was asked to provide my account of all that had passed to the Legion. Having gone over the events of the previous night again and again in my head, and eventually committing them to my journal, it was not difficult to answer the Legate's questions.

When I returned home, Giselle met me in the hallway. She had cleaned herself up and was dressed demurely and in black, about to leave for the Temple of the Divines, I assumed. Despite what she had said to the priest, she had a satchel over her shoulder, full of what she must have considered to be our parent's treasures. I could see the handle of father's sword poking out the top of the satchel; the silver pommel caught the entryway torchlight.

She blinked quickly – a startle – and had the grace to look guilty for a fleeting moment. Then her expression blanked.

"You're back," she spoke evenly, gingerly adjusting the satchel. "I am bound for the Temple."

I suppressed a sigh, too tired to argue with her, and nodded. There was a sense of weary defeat in my reply; "Wait for me? I just need to change." I was still in the blood-stained dress that I had worn to the Blue Palace the previous evening.

Giselle hesitated and didn't reply, but held her arms around herself as though she had a chill. I felt no frustration coming from her as I walked by and made for my bedroom, and she was still waiting there when I emerged a few minutes later. We looked mirror images of one another, but for our hair; hers, sleek and straight and unbound, and mine, wavy and uncooperative, fighting to break free of a thick braid.

"Mother would want you to pull your hair back for Temple," I murmured with a sigh as we left.

Giselle shook her head, her eyes glued to the ground as we walked. By the time we were on the main road, she had assembled an answer. "We are our own women now, Celeste."

I cast an uncertain sideways glance at her, but she said no more. Giselle had been my mother's favourite; of this I was _certain_. Giselle had complied – to my mind, revelled – in mother's suggestions and tastes. Had it all been an act?

 _She'll never admit it, if it was – and it's not like it matters any more._

Giving the Bard's College a wide berth, because I didn't want anyone from school to see and attempt to hail me, we ambled toward the Temple of the Divines to bid our parents good bye.

–

News travelled fast, and time, even faster. The day after our parent's burials, a lawyer appeared with their will; the details of which Giselle and I already knew. My parent's money and assets were to be split between us equally, and the Proudspire title was amended to contain both of our names, each with an equal share of ownership.

Not even a week had passed, and letters arrived from my mother's parents in Wayrest and my father's in the Imperial City. Both requested that Giselle and I go to them at once. The spiralling unrest in Skyrim, along with the reports of skirmishes on the borders, had everybody on edge, and I couldn't blame our grandparents for insisting we remove ourselves from what would surely be the centre of the mounting civil war.

I had expected Giselle to dig her heels in and insist that she would return to Winterhold to spite the Stormcloaks (or me), but upon the arrival of the letter from Wayrest, she had brightened, and the first true smile I had seen from her in - was it months? - graced her features.

"Of course," she mumbled in realisation. "I can study with the Mages Guild in Wayrest."

Within days, she had departed on a ship bound for High Rock. I had not tried to stop her – nothing I might have said would have changed her mind, anyway.

I told myself that it was a good thing she was leaving Skyrim. She would be safe with our grandparents, and eventually she would be happy, or at the very least, her snotty self once again.

The thought to leave for Wayrest with her never crossed my mind. Giselle and I needed to recover from our parents deaths separately, this much was clear. I was relieved on the day she left Solitude. She had bade me farewell with what felt like a genuinely warm embrace, and then with her hands on my shoulders, locked my gaze.

"Go back to the Bard's College tomorrow, Celeste," she had said, before she had gone. "My heart glows at the thought of being able to study again. So will yours, if you allow it."

I told her that I would.

And, because I had nowhere else to go and nothing else to occupy my time with, I followed through on my promise.

I found myself standing in the College entryway the morning after I had spent my first night alone in Proudspire Manor. I cradled my crumpled lute in my arms, intent on taking it to Dean Inge Six-Fingers. But by the time I arrived, her first class had commenced. I couldn't bring myself to slink into the class as late as I was; to be subjected to the curious and condoling stares of my colleagues. Not yet.

Dean Pantea Ateia found me as I stood motionless, deliberating what I should do. Her eyes widened when she saw what I cradled.

The Imperial woman had always been partial to me, despite my decision to major in lute and not the flute. She had taught me much about singing; about using my voice to its full potential, while taking care of it so that I could keep using it. She had taught me to extend my range by a whole octave, in the past three years.

"Celeste – what–? But, why are you here?" she hurried to my side.

I swallowed and stared at her, uncertain of the answer for myself. My eyes flickered over her as my mind chugged away, searching for reason. She was wearing a dull green robe lined in russet, and her hair was falling free around her face like a fluffy blonde curtain. While she waited, she held both of her hands out gingerly, as though she wanted to relieve me of my broken lute, but was uncertain of where she could touch it without causing more damage.

"I thought..that perhaps Madam Inge could assess it?" I resolved.

Dean Ateia pursed her lips and nodded once. "I understand. Leave it with me, and return to your sister."

"Oh. She's gone," I murmured swiftly. My arms tightened around the broken pieces of my lute.

"Gone?" Dean Ateia blinked as though affronted. "Where? Surely not to _Winterhold_ at a time like this?"

I shook my head, and in the act felt a little of the fog clouding my mind retreat. "No, she has quit Winterhold," I explained. "She means to complete her studies with the Mages Guild, in Wayrest. She won't have to worry about the war-"

"My dear," Dean Ateia cut in with a stammer, "that is not at all what I meant," she cast me a perplexed look. "I had no idea that your sister could be so heartless. She should not have left you alone."

"Oh," I wasn't sure what to say. A strange sense of honour demanded that I defend Giselle, since she wasn't here to speak for herself. "It wasn't like _that_ , Madam Pantea. We agreed that it would be better if we sought our solace in education and the distraction offered by the academic circles," I fumbled.

 _More lies_ , I berated. _And to one of your teachers; one of the women who taught you how to spin such tales._

"I see," Dean Ateia sounded uncertain, but whatever she thought of my excuse, she let it go. "And, is _that_ why you are here?" she asked; her trademark pretension returned. "To resume your studies?"

I nodded because it was easier than trying to reason a visit that I wasn't entirely certain why I had made.

Dean Ateia pursed her lips, but there was concern in her eyes when she shook her head. "If you insist. Voice instruction begins at ten. We are...focusing on the minor arpeggios, this week."

Again I nodded. The older woman nodded in return, then resumed her path along the hall, in the direction of the Deans' private chambers.

"Before then, report to Master Viarmo and advise him of your decision," she called back as she left. "We assumed that you had deferred."

I thanked her, and once she had gone, I sighed and sat on one of the bench seats by the doorway. Yes, I would visit the Headmaster eventually, but I did not want to waste the Altmer's time until I had thought this out. Did I truly want to return to the College, where I had left off?

 _Have you abandoned your promise to use Ulfric's words against him already? Your parents die, and you continue on as though it never happened?_

But father would not have wanted me to give up my studies for the world. Even mother had taken pride in my achievements and progress. They would not want me to throw it all away.

The quiet tones of a lilting tune being plucked on a lute drifted to me, and I blinked hurriedly, gasping as tears sprung to my eyes. It was _A Mother's Nursery Rhyme_ ; a simple, sad song that I remembered - as though from a previous life - that Aia had been working on expanding. I glanced toward the staircase that lead to Dean Six-Finger's class as the lute player's fingers slipped during an elaborate, unnecessary trill she had added to the opening bars.

Whoever was playing continued, ignoring their mistake as we had been trained to do. While a bard noticed whenever a note was missed, audiences tended not to so long as the tempo was maintained. One of my colleagues Jorn had tested this out, much to our amusement, one memorable night at the Winking Skeever. During Lisette's break, he had played the whole of _Mead, Mead, Mead_ , transposed to a minor key. None of the patrons had cared, and had heartily joined in singing the rowdy dirge. Lisette, on the other hand, had thrown him a withering look as she had resumed her shift, and refused to let him entertain her customers again.

I forgot all about the _Mead_ song as Aia's pleasant voice, strong and sonorous, harmonised confidently with the tentative notes being plucked on the lute. I froze, closing my eyes and hugging my broken lute to my chest as my heart twisted and ached.

 _"Do you have five children, Mother?  
_ _I've heard that you do.  
_ _Five children? No, tonight I have four-  
_ _Four children, sweet and pure,  
_ _Four, and no more."_

I yearned to join her, and to flee at the same time. A few lonely tears fell from my closed eyes and trailed a path down my cheeks.

 _I can't do it_ , I realised. _The music will break me._

The lute player's fingering slipped again – on a similar section to before – and while they tried to recover, the music stopped after a bar or two more.

I opened my eyes and rose hurriedly, pushing back the tears before they could consume me. Dean Six-Fingers had doubtlessly stopped whoever was accompanying Aia. She would let a slip pass once, but not twice, and whoever was playing would now need to repeat the section in half-time, until their fingers were able to find the right notes instinctively.

I shook my head at myself - at my criticism of whoever had been accompanying Aia - knowing that it was probably Ataf. He had always had trouble with trills. The practise was good for him.

While I mused over my colleagues as a distraction from the decision I had to make, I drifted to the Headmaster's office and knocked.

The door opened a crack, and the Altmer's head poked around it. We glanced at each other for one startled moment, and then the Headmaster opened his door properly.

"Passero?" Master Viarmo's thin face was confused and his mouth turned down. "I did not expect to see you returned to us so soon," he admitted.

"May I come in, Headmaster?" I asked from the doorway.

"Ah – of course," he stepped aside, then followed me in, moving around to sit at his desk. "Take a seat."

I glanced around the Headmaster's office swiftly. My gaze flitted over the fine paintings and bookshelves lined with songbooks and historical texts; the plaques of appreciation and accolades; the medals and trophies and trinkets he had collected throughout his career. In the past I had looked upon his achievements with reverence, assuring myself that I would someday have a collection to rival his, if I remained true to myself, and my craft.

But now?

 _Why am I here? I do not wish to sing, and I cannot play a broken lute._

Belatedly, I shook my head. "I shall not keep you long, Headmaster; I would rather stand," the words spilled from me, lacking emotion. "I have come to confirm my deferral from my studies. I am leaving Solitude for a time."

 _I am?_

Master Viarmo stilled as his eyes met mine, but then he nodded curtly. "You have every right to request it. Are you bound for your grandparents in Cyrodiil, or High Rock?"

"Cyrodiil," I found myself saying in a disconnected voice.

The Altmer murmured an acknowledgement. "Then I caution you to make haste, Celeste. The border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil will not be passable for long."

I nodded, feeling dazed and removed from this part of me that was making decisions. I had not intended on deferring and journeying to my grandparents at all when I had stepped into the Bard's College. The thought of leaving Solitude had not even crossed my mind. Had it?

"You may return to us whenever you wish," Master Viarmo continued. "And you must promise me that, once settled, you will have somebody repair your lute, or acquire a new one. Though you may not feel it now," he inclined his head knowingly, "a talent as demanding as yours will not allow you to ignore it for long. It will turn into a void that eats away at your very being until you appease its call."

"I – I promise, Master Viarmo," I stammered, bemused by the Headmaster's – what was this - _praise_? I had never heard the likes from him before.

 _He believes it will make you feel better_ , I mused.

The Headmaster seemed a uneasy, perhaps realising that he had let his stern demeanour falter. He sat a little straighter before he spoke again. "Very good. I shall make your decision known to the Deans."

"Thank you," I dipped my head and took a step back. "I shall take my leave."

Master Viarmo dismissed me, and when I walked from the room I made sure to keep my eyes trained forward. Everybody was busy in morning classes, so I was not passed, let alone questioned or stopped. The heels of my boots clipped lightly against the flagstones, tapping out a rhythm that grew faster and faster as I approached the exit. By the time I had reached it, I was practically running.

Once outside, I leaned back against the closed door, and glanced around the courtyard. I had spent many a day and night out here with my colleagues; making music, practising our craft, discussing history or developing a story. Taking in a great big, somewhat relieved breath of morning air, my mind caught up to what I had told the Headmaster.

 _So. Cyrodiil._

I nodded, accepting that my subconscious had made the decision for me.

I was going to Cyrodiil, to my grandparent's house in the Imperial City. Away from Solitude, and Skyrim, and the Stormcloaks. Away from the Bard's College, and Proudspire, and the Temple of the Divines, where my parents had been laid to rest.

 _You will be able to learn more about this thu'um magic at one of the City libraries. Perhaps even ask at the University about it_ , I told myself. _If you can make use of the time, running to Cyrodiil won't be folly after all._

Still bemused by the hasty change in direction – _was it hasty?_ \- I made my way home. Now that the decision was made, I had to follow through and pack for the journey. Master Viarmo was right – if I wanted to make it into Cyrodiil, I would have to go before the war between the Stormcloaks and the Empire made crossing the border impossible.


	3. Truths

_Chapter 3: Truths_

Preparations for the journey south consumed my time for the next four days. When I wasn't keeping myself occupied with where I was headed, I warred over whether I should be going at all.

I glanced over my parent's belongings, only for some keepsake for myself or my grandparents, to remember their son by. Giselle had done a remarkably good job at putting together their precious personal items that solemn day we had said farewell to them. All that remained were items that, while expensive, had little to no sentimental value.

The exception was my father's ring, which had been passed down the Passero line for generations. It was large and gold with a small ebony dove carved in its centre. It had been left to me in their will, just as my mother's signet ring had been left to Giselle.

My sister hadn't seemed to care that I had been given the Passero seal, but then, she had always seemed to identify more with our Breton heritage. She would have kicked up a fuss if I'd been given mother's ring, to be sure.

Father's ring was far too large for me to wear on any of my fingers, so I slipped it on one of my necklaces and hung it around my neck, under my clothes and out of sight.

As for Proudspire Manor? I could not bear to board it up to be abandoned, but I had no idea how long I might reside in Cyrodiil. Giselle certainly intended to remain in Wayrest for the indefinite future. So it was left to me to ensure that the kitchen and larder were empty, to deter skeevers, and that the house was protected from thieves before I left.

Lord Erikur's Melaran assisted with the latter. I had repaid him for the service with several bottles of wine from father's cellar. The mage cast runes on all the windows and doors, with the exception of the main door which I would need to stay clear, until I was gone.

Watching the skilled Altmer as he systematically drew symbols with a piece of chalk on each window and door, and then brought them to fiery life with a wave of his hand and a whisper, made the journey very real. With the wards in place, there was no turning back for me now.

After escorting Melaran to the front door and bidding him farewell, I decided I would leave the following morning on the coach bound south for Falkreath.

I had packed the largest backpack I could find, and in it were my journals and sheet music; pieces of me that I did not want to be without. I had decided that I could get by in a single outfit, for despite the chance that the journey would take longer than two days, I could buy clothes in the Imperial City. I didn't want to waste the space in my bag on dresses and socks when I might bring another of my books with me instead.

The last job I had turned to was the most difficult to face; my broken lute. I could not bear the thought of leaving it behind to rot, even if I never played it again. I wrapped the pieces in soft hide, and tied it to the outside of my pack. There were plenty of craftspeople in the Imperial City who would be up to the task of repairing it.

With my lute secured, I descended to the kitchen for my last supper alone. I had sold a lot of our stored food at the markets, but had kept enough for that night, and the next morning.

My socked footfalls made no sound as I crossed the cavernous chamber between my bedroom and the staircase; a sitting and reading area that everybody in my family had once enjoyed relaxing in before bed. I stared at the empty chairs as a memory of my parents, sitting close to one another and reading from the same book, and my sister, perusing one of the bookshelves with a thoughtful crease in her brow, formed there for a second, before their images drifted away.

Swallowing the fresh lump in my throat, I turned swiftly and descended the stairs.

 _It's so quiet_ , I shuddered for the hundredth time. The sudden lack of music and conversation in my life was a little staggering at times. Whenever the loneliness clamped down on my throat and threatened to choke my sobs out of me, I would remind myself that before the week was out, I would be with my grandparents in a city where I would never be alone again, even if I wanted to be.

Before I reached the kitchens, there was a knock at the front door.

I hesitated and stared down the hall to the blue steel at the end of it. My mind ticked over my arrangements, searching for who I might have asked to call at this hour.

I opened the door a crack and spied the tall Redguard man dressed in a long, dark blue coat, cream leggings and brown boots. His dark hair was cropped short against his scalp, and the edge of a grey scarf tucked under the collar of his coat poked out. His back was to the door, as though he was about to leave.

Recognition flared within the dull lifelessness of my mind; it had taken me longer than it should have to recognise Ataf, my colleague from the College. I opened the door properly as the bard descended the steps into the garden that would lead him back to the main street.

"Ataf?" my voice was a weak croak to my ears. He _was_ leaving. I must have taken longer than I thought to open the door.

The Redguard spun around, startled - but then I saw relief writ plain on his face. A chilly breeze swept over the sea-side wall, fluttering his coat, and I held my arms and shivered as it pushed through me.

"You _haven't_ left," he grinned, bounding back.

Shaking my head, I stared up to the man, feeling suddenly dwarfed. "No."

Ataf fidgeted with his hands on the landing, then doubled his smile. "I'm pleased to hear it," he revealed. "Master Viarmo told everybody that you had deferred and left for the Imperial City!"

There was something awkward about Ataf. He seemed to strive only to please those around him. Even now it was evident in the way he couldn't stand still, and the abundance of cheer to his tone.

But there was no wrongness to him; at least, none I had ever felt, and I admired that quality in him. He genuinely seemed happy to simply be with and of service to his teachers and peers.

Realising why he had come, I frowned. "I haven't left yet; that is all."

Ataf's smile faltered. "Oh. Then it's true?"

"Yes," I took a step back from the entryway, dimly recalling that there were such a thing as manners. "Won't you come in? I was about to take supper, if you would like to join me."

The bard flashed me a more weary smile in return. "Sorry, I didn't realise you hadn't eaten. I should leave you to your preparations, and meal," he took a step back.

"Please?" I asked hurriedly, catching his arm with my hand before I could stop myself.

There was no disguising my despondency. Hearing my own earnest voice brought heat to my cheeks, but Ataf just crossed his brows in concern.

I lowered my eyes, unable to bear the embarrassment. "I'm sorry – it's just been. Difficult," it seemed I couldn't form a complete sentence, without changing my mind. I gave up, and let silence reign between us.

"Are you...have you been by yourself in here?" Ataf asked haltingly. A large, consoling hand rested over mine. "All this time? Since they-?"

 _Pull yourself together, Celeste._

"No, of course not," I made myself lift my head. "My sister was here when it happened."

"That's what we thought – I mean – your sister," Ataf cast a worried, furtive look beyond me, into the house. "By the Gods, Celeste. We thought you were grieving _with_ her, not _alone_. If we had known-"

"She _was_ here," I repeated swiftly. It seemed that everybody at the Bard's College had been keeping their distance out of respect for what they assumed was Giselle and my time of private mourning. "She left a few days ago, bound for Wayrest," I added.

The corner of his mouth, which I was so used to seeing lifted up in smile, turned down. An inkling of a thought drifted through my mind; frowns didn't suit him.

"Of course I'll join you for supper," he accepted in an undertone.

Nodding, I withdrew my hand from his, and indicated that we should move indoors.

The entry was dark, and now also cool from the time that we had spent talking with the door wide open. I closed it behind Ataf as he hung up his scarf and coat on the pegs, then I wordlessly led him to the warmer kitchen. Had this been any other visitor from Solitude I would have led them to the dining room, or at least the sitting room, but I felt familiar enough with members of the Bard's College to dispense with formalities. These were the people I had spent late nights and early mornings with as we argued over historical texts, then blearily stumbled with into our lectures the next day after little or no sleep. Ataf and I could take supper in the kitchen.

"Did you figure out those trills in _A Mother's Nursery Rhyme_?" I asked, finally locating a topic that wouldn't lead to the High King or my parents' murders, or my imminent departure. I didn't even try to fool myself that both wouldn't eventually come up.

"You heard about that?" I could hear his wince.

I smiled knowingly over my shoulder at him.

"It's...a work in progress," he sighed wryly.

The smile was uplifting, and I yearned to maintain it for as long as possible. "What has been happening at the College? What's Illdi up to this week?" a topic I knew would divert Ataf from rawer subjects.

"Well," he sighed elaborately as he lifted his eyebrows. "As Skyrim is _apparently_ on the brink of war, Illdi has decided she's going to shift her major to percussion, and is telling everyone that she wants to be of use to the Imperial Legion, should they have need of her."

Snorting, I scrunched my nose up. "That's _Jorn's_ plan." The woman never seemed to have an original idea of her own, much to the exasperation of the rest of us. I often wondered why she had bothered joining the Bard's college in the first place, though she'd probably plucked that idea from somebody else and for some reason, had needed to follow through. "She _can't_ be serious - _her_ , marching into _battle_ -?"

"Oh, I'm sure she's not serious," Ataf threw me an amused half-smile. "I'm expecting that by tomorrow, she'll have deferred and be on her way to Cyrodiil."

Entering the kitchen, I shook my head in bemusement and motioned for Ataf to take a seat behind the large wooden island as I moved around the other side to assemble supper. I hadn't cooked anything – I hadn't seen any reason to dirty the pots and pans when they were already stored away. There was a bowl of jazbay grapes that needed to be gone before tomorrow, some leftover buttered crab meat from my lunch, and a few honeyed nut treats that mother had made, that I hadn't been able to sell. There were far too many for me to eat though, so I was pleased that Ataf had arrived to share them with me.

I slid the platter and a fork to him, and turned away to the teapot. I'd been keeping it warm all day above the fire. The ginseng tea smelled very strong and earthy, and while not piping hot, was warm enough to be acceptable, given the hour.

"Speaking of which," again, his voice seemed to carry a trace of a wince. "How long do you think you'll stay in Cyrodiil?" he asked conversationally.

I stilled, grateful that my back was turned to him. Truthfully, I had no plan.

I could have spun some answer for Ataf, but opted instead to evade. "It depends on how long this conflict lasts for," I turned around and poured two cups of the warmed liquid, then slid one of the mugs across to him. "My grandparents were worried about Giselle and I being trapped in Skyrim, which is why we both decided to go to them," that much, at least, was true.

Ataf nodded slowly as he accepted the cup and took a sip, and I moved back around the table to take a seat beside him, sipping my own. The silence crept over me as I drank, and I searched for another topic to break it.

"I am hoping to conduct research there into some ancient magic, this Way of the Voice that Ulfric used on the High King," I stammered. "My grandparents have an extensive library with several centuries worth of books that..." I trailed off, realising that the books, estate and apartment in the Imperial City, that all should have been passed to my father over time, would now become part of Giselle and my inheritance, quite sooner than we had expected. I shook my head to dislodge the thought. "Plus, the Arcane University is close by. Somebody there will know more about it."

I speared a small piece of crab meat with my fork, berating myself for rambling.

Ataf sounded thoughtful after he'd swallowed. "So, it's true then? The High King was challenged to a dual by Ulfric Stormcloak, and the Queen and his housecarls just sat there and watched while he was Shouted at and cut down?"

I spluttered, choking and coughing on the crab.

"Are you all right?" Ataf sounded panicked.

I placed my fork down on the table with a shaky hand and stared at Ataf. "Wherever did you hear such a story?" I whispered over a trembling lower lip.

Ataf placed a consoling hand on the middle of my back, his brows knit in confusion. "It's – what folk are saying – is that not what happened?"

The white-hot fury that had emerged during that fateful evening shot through me. I closed my eyes and focused on my breaths.

 _He was not there, it is not his fault. He is only repeating what he has heard._

"Celeste?" I could hear Ataf asking, but the call seemed far away, as though he was speaking from another room. "Do you need a drink of water or-?"

"And the Legion," I cut in quietly. "They allow this – take on events?"

"The Legion have said nothing, as usual," it sounded as though he was rolling his eyes.

"Come with me," I squared him and stood. I was teetering on a precipice, uncertain if I wanted to cry or scream. Ataf deserved neither response, and neither reaction would change what had happened, or stop the warped tale from being circulated.

I would set the record straight, at least for Ataf. And he was a bard; he would spread the word further, to all who would listen to him, while I was away.

Grasping Ataf's hand in mine, I towed him behind me. After a brief exclamation from the Redguard he allowed me to drag him, perhaps sensing my storm cloud of spiralling emotions. I darted up the staircases, into my room, and deposited Ataf in the chair at my desk.

"What's going on?" he asked cautiously.

"You need to – just - no. Wait there," I managed. I flew to my pack and dug through my books, withdrew my most recent journal and placed it down in front of him. "Read," I ordered. After a beat, I added a belated, calmer, "um. Please."

Ataf cast me a wary glance before his eyes settled on the pages.

I waited, my eyes glued to him. My breaths came shallowly. I watched until consternation crossed his features, and then I could bear to watch him no longer.

I fled to my bathroom so I would not have to live through his reactions, making my own excuses; it was late, and I would have to be up early if I wanted to make the coach. I prepared for bed; washing my face, donning my night dress and robe, then brushing my hair out of its braid.

I stared at myself in the mirror as my hair smoothed around my shoulders and down my back. Ataf was a brilliant wordsmith, and a small part of me felt nervous that he was reading my private thoughts. I had written from the heart many times before at school, and had accepted his help, his criticism, and his suggestions, all while I argued to keep portions that I believed were important. But I had never written something that had made me feel so raw, so exposed. I'd never written anything that had properly _mattered_ before.

 _Don't you want the world to know what happened?_

I cast my reflection an unimpressed glare. Of _course_ I did.

My skin seemed pale in the wan light of the bathroom; some time in balmy Cyrodiil would at least do my complexion good. I emerged from the bathroom feeling slightly more composed.

Ataf was hunched over my desk, his eyes still flickering back and forth across the text. His brows were still crossed, but his eyes were wider now.

As I approached the desk, he sat back with a heavy sigh and closed my journal. His warm brown gaze located and then searched me with what seemed to be thick confusion, but then his expression levelled, and he rose.

"I'm so sorry, Celeste."

In two strides he was before me, enveloping me in his arms.

I stilled, startled, but the hug was over before I realised what had happened. Ataf's hands fell to my arms as he stepped back and fixed me with his sympathy.

It was a look that I had been trying to avoid, I realised with a thud of dread to my chest. I rifled through my thoughts to find something, _anything_ , to divert whatever he was about to say.

"I swear to you," a trace of a flush crossed his cheeks as his hands drifted back to his side. "I will use everything I have to ensure Skyrim hears the truth."

I hugged my arms, feeling cold and small, and - despite my friend standing before me - somehow, I felt alone.

I shook my head impatiently. "What does it matter?" I asked, alarmed by the thickness to my words. I cleared my throat hastily. "The truth won't change the past. It won't bring them back."

Ataf tilted his head and gave me a small, bittersweet smile. "It matters because it is the truth," he broke eye contact, glancing around my room. "It matters because they were your parents, and he was our High King. They deserve to be remembered."

I stepped past him to retrieve my journal, to give myself something to do. There was silence between us but I felt Ataf's eyes follow me closely while I carefully placed my journal back in my bag, then closed it again.

"There's nothing I can say to make you stay?" he asked in a strained voice. "We could write their song together-"

I shook my head and whipped to him. "I do not wish to sing it," my reply was quiet, but harsher than I had intended.

Ataf closed his mouth and nodded in defeat. He faltered, then managed; "I'm...truly sorry, Celeste. I - I wish I had been a better friend to you. I wish you had not endured it all alone," he sighed, shaking his head in regret, and his uncertainty was plain. "I wish you weren't leaving."

 _I am alone, aren't I_ , I realised, knitting together the truths he had spoken. I _had_ avoided going back to the College; from being swept up by my colleagues, my _friends_ , whose music would have just as readily brought forth the grief I was running from as my own.

Ataf glanced to the door. "I should go," he murmured with a shake to his head, as though he was trying to dislodge some thought. "It's late, and you...have a long journey ahead of you."

 _Alone again._

"No - Ataf," I took a step closer to him. "Wait."

He hesitated - seemed to collect himself - then turned back to face me. "What do you need?" he asked in his familiar, obliging tone.

For the first time, I had the notion that the tone was forced.

 _What do you need, Celeste_ , I asked myself? _Another hug? Grow up._ I stared up at him and bit my bottom lip, teetering on another precipice.

"Can you stay?" I tried not to overthink it; how small it made me feel to ask. I simply did not want to be left alone again in this enormous, cold manor that had, for almost all of my life, been so full of warmth and comfort.

"Stay?" he frowned, taken aback and suitably wary. "I don't understand."

 _Don't – don't do it_ , I warred with myself. I was leaving Solitude tomorrow, and while Ataf did not want me to go at all, I did not want him to go _now_. My frantic mind could come up with only one way to ensure he stayed.

I closed the space between us and wound my arms around his neck, maintaining his alarmed gaze all the while.

 _I just - don't want to be alone._

"Celeste – what-?" he whispered; his eyes wide and unblinking. His shoulders tensed, and his arms seemed rigidly locked to his sides.

"Please stay," I heard myself cut him off as I curled my fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. I felt distanced - somehow separated from myself, as though a different Celeste standing behind me had spoken.

His hands fell to my arms, holding us gently, firmly, apart. "You are grieving," he murmured. I had the thought that he was reminding himself more than me of the fact. "I would be a beast to take advantage of you, and you would never forgive me," he added. "I will stay if you wish – but you don't have to-" his quiet exasperation bore a trace of irony. "Perhaps you can help me with _A Mother's Nursery Rhyme._ Can I borrow your lute?"

 _No. No music. Anything but that._

I stood on my toes, leaning up as I pressed my lips to his, silencing whatever else he might have said. Ataf froze. My mind was foggy with conflict, so I concentrated on the feel of his lips grazing mine in an effort to forget everything else.

Gradually, his grip slackened and his bottom lip grazed mine in restrained, but evident response.

I squeezed my eyes shut tight in both victory and panic, but had committed to banishing this fear, this loneliness. I was a _bard_. I would spin my way through what I had started. I doubled my efforts, drawing flush against him.

He gasped and withdrew to look down at me as his hands drifted to rest on my waist. With regret thick in his throat, he muttered; "Don't tempt me."

It was the voice of a man at war with himself.

"I know that you do not love me, but you are too easy to love in return," he continued quietly. His eyes searched mine, pleading for something I couldn't identify. "You will break me if I stay."

There was nothing but truth in his plea. I saw in his eyes what I'd failed to see during his entire visit, absorbed by my own thoughts. The nervous looks, the desire to cheer me up, the repeated requests to stay in Solitude.

But it went back further than tonight, I realised. The willingness to help me with my studies; the smiles and ready companionship.

He had come to Proudspire Manor because he felt something for me – did he _love_ me? - despite knowing that I didn't return his feelings.

And I had thrown myself at him, tried to take something from him to give myself a fleeting moment of _distraction_. I was a villain; I was abominable.

I paled and searched him with wide eyes, horrified. Had I grown so selfish that I would use my _friend_ who had only ever helped me?

"Oh, Gods. I'm sorry," I managed, easing myself back. I lowered my arms, and his drifted back to his side. "I'm so sorry."

It was all I could say, but I _was_ sorry - about everything. I was sorry for what I had done; sorry that I was leaving. Sorry that I didn't love him.

He nodded briefly, then found a smile. "It's fine. No harm done to this old heart."

I huffed at his forced optimism. How had I missed this? I had so frequently appealed to his better nature, had asked for his help knowing that he was always ready to drop whatever he was doing for me. I _had_ wounded him, again and again.

 _You must never do this again. Never use anyone the way that you have used Ataf_ , I commanded.

 _Grow up_ , another voice within me snarled. _He's not dead._ _Fix this._

"Please," I motioned toward the door, uncertain of how to repair anything when I was leaving in a matter of hours. There simply wasn't time, and the air between us was too awkward to discuss it for the moment. _Your fault for kissing him._

"Let me see you on your way. I have kept you long enough and - my behaviour..." I trailed off.

A flash of disappointment crossed his face. "Of course – you have a long journey ahead of you," he stammered, turning toward the door and motioning for me to precede him.

I stepped past. _As you keep telling me_ , I wanted to say. Instead, I let silence reign as I saw his nervousness for what it was. I flushed scarlet as I descended the staircases to the entry level; to the only door that he would be able to leave Proudspire by. The walk to the front door was an endless chasm of discomfort.

I passed him his coat and scarf, turning away from his wounded eyes and lingering hands to open the blue steel and let the frigid night in.

"I suppose this is good bye, for now," Ataf said evenly, shrugging on his coat.

I faced him on the landing, grasping my arms about me as I stared - and then nodded as, with a mental shove, I made myself speak.

"Thank you for...everything," I mumbled. Was this good bye? If I returned to my studies some day, Ataf would have graduated and left the College. Where might his life lead him? Would I ever find out?

"Don't mention it," Ataf replied in that overly obliging tone of his, turning on the landing to descend. He raised a hand in farewell, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Enjoy Cyrodiil, Celeste. And, maybe write us a letter if you have a chance; let us know...how you are getting on."

He stopped short and shook his head, descending the stairs at a jog.

"I will," I called after him.

He didn't look back. After a few more hurried steps – _because it's cold; he's running because it's cold_ – he was on the main street, and gone.

Despite the cold of night leeching through my night dress and thin robe, I stood for a moment in the doorway, staring at the point where I had last seen him.

 _You couldn't have possibly managed that any worse than you did._

I winced and watched as my breath puffed before me in a little white cloud, then stepped back and closed the door; locking it for the night. Melaran would be by after dawn to seal it, to complete his task of securing Proudspire, so I would have to be gone before then.

 _That won't be a problem_ , I thought ruefully as I cleaned up the kitchen. Ataf's visit, and the truths that it had unearthed, had left me feeling incredibly drained. But I did not wish to sleep. I was full of worry over the looming journey, and mortification over what had just passed between Ataf and I.

 _It is a good thing that you are leaving Solitude, then._

I retreated to my room, insisting that even if I didn't sleep, I must try to calm down.

It was not easy. About an hour before dawn, I dressed in my travel clothes, shouldered my pack, and made for the front gates of Solitude, where the coach would be waiting to take me away. While the anxiety over what lay ahead still filled me, its effects were ebbed by a somewhat grateful but unexpected sense of relief that I was not going to spend another cold, quiet night in Proudspire, with only my thoughts for company.


	4. Impasse

_Chapter 4: Impasse_

I disembarked with the other travellers at the gates to Falkreath, collecting my pack from the coach's hold. Shouldering it, I glanced over what I could see of the township. The shadows of night had already gathered. I had never been to Falkreath, but I recalled that it was said to have a sombre air about it. It contained one of the largest and oldest cemeteries in all of Skyrim after all, and that could not fail to affect its foundations.

I shuddered, glad that I did not have to remain in the uninviting place for long. Hastening to the two burly guards in the indigo mail of Falkreath, I dipped my head respectfully.

"Good evening," I sounded merry but wished that I could see the man's eyes. It was impossible under his full-faced helm. "Where might I catch the adjoining coach for Cyrodiil?"

"Cyrodiil?" the thick Nord accent was muffled, but there was no mistaking the discomfort to his tone. The guard shook his head. "There won't be any coaches bound for Cyrodiil for a while, lass."

To his credit, he sounded apologetic, but my heart plummeted.

"The last three that attempted the border crossing were turned back."

"But," I stammered, "my grandparents are expecting me. I have to-"

"I'm afraid you're too late," he cut me off, though still not unkindly. "Head back where you came from, in the morning. Dead Man's Drink is that way," he motioned toward a wood and thatch cottage with his shield arm. My eyes drifted from the sprawling verandah with its sense of oppression, back to the blue shield bearing the white stag painted in its centre. I was stuck _here_?

"Valga will put you up for the night, for a small fee. Make for Whiterun in the morning, and you can catch a coach to take you north from there."

 _Walk to Whiterun?_

I nodded my thanks, as it was expected of me, and there was no point in arguing with the messenger. Shaking a little, I stepped through the gate. I felt dizzy with nausea. How could I have been so stupid? Of _course_ there were no coaches travelling over the border. Why hadn't I checked before I had left Solitude?

 _Solitude._

With a pang weighed down by chagrin, I halted in the middle of the street and barely stopped myself from groaning out loud. Closing my eyes, I tried to come to terms with the prospect of going home, where I would have to face both Ataf, and my music, so soon.

 _Stop sulking, and think,_ I commanded.

Yes. There would be a way. There _had_ to be a way. I resumed walking through the township, bypassing the inn for the moment. I would return to it, but I wanted to walk for a bit, after being cooped up all day on the coach. Besides, the silence would allow me the space to figure out what I could do.

I passed an empty blacksmith's; not abandoned, merely closed. The forge glowed orange and cast an ominous hue over the empty workbenches and grindstone.

I turned away. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I approached the Jarl's Longhouse. It was twice the size of the other structures of town, but still made out of wood and thatch like every other building. Beside its entrance stood a pair of large indigo banners, fluttering eerily in the breeze.

I kept walking. Had my father lived, as a daughter of a Thane of Haafingar I would have been within my rights to request accommodation for the night at the longhouse. Now? I was an orphan in an uncertain Skyrim, and was not so sure how far the generosity of the Jarls would extend, regardless of their allegiance.

 _No coaches to Cyrodiil_ , I reminded myself before I became consumed by melancholy. _How will you get there?_

No coaches surely, simply meant that the Legionnaires patrolling the road weren't allowing registered transport to cross. They couldn't risk the Stormcloaks sending spies into Cyrodiil.

But _I_ was clearly not a Stormcloak spy. The Passero family's loyalty to the Empire was well known and documented, spanning eras. All I would need to do was approach the border guards, show them the Passero seal, and I could be on my way.

Looping back around the longhouse, I did what I should have done before I had left Solitude; planned a path forward. I would spend a night at the inn, and in the morning, enquire about a horse. I didn't want to have to _walk_ to the Imperial City, after all.

 _Right_. First stage of the plan; Dead Man's Drink.

–

It was a dank and cheerless place and a damp smell hovered around the door way. I nodded a brief hello to the resident bard, relieved to see that he was a man of about forty who could not possibly know me to strike up conversation about the going-ons back at the College. He seemed confused by my acknowledgement and didn't return it, and his eyes followed me as I made my way to the bar.

I glanced around the large, open common room. The inn's quiet patrons were old, male, and all carried grim, bleary countenances. _Perhaps they have all had a hard day?_

It didn't matter. I trained my eyes on the bar and pressed on, though I somewhat wished that I had gone to the Jarl's Longhouse after all.

There were two women at the back of the inn, and the sight of them kept me moving forward. The publican - at least, I assumed that was who she was - was a pretty Imperial who seemed younger than her bard, which made me wonder just how long she had been publican here for. She was positioned behind the bar and leaning across it, smiling with her serving girl; a tall, thin Nord woman clad in a skimpy green and yellow dress cinched in the middle by a leather corset with an ornamental-looking dagger at her hip. She had straight red hair, and wore too much eye makeup and jewellery.

The pair were in quiet, but clearly amused conversation with one another; the only people smiling in the whole dreary place. I positioned myself close to the serving girl.

"Oh!" the woman – Valga, I remembered that the guard had called her – stood and looked pleasantly surprised. "What's this? A new face in Falkreath!"

"Hello," my relief at her show of geniality was obvious. "Just a temporary new face, I'm afraid."

"Pity," the Nord girl drawled in a mild accent; her eyes raking over me.

I blinked back at her, bemused, as heat rose to my cheeks.

"Leave her alone Norri, and get back to work," Valga replied with laughter in her tone. "I've got a customer."

"Slave-driver," the brash woman rolled her eyes and addressed me with a smirk. "Don't let the boys scare you away," she gave a sideways nod into the common area. "They look like a miserable bunch, but they are easy enough to wrap around your finger with a little gentle _persuasion_."

Norri flounced away before I fully understood what she meant.

"Cheeky," Valga muttered under her breath. "And all talk, I'll have you know," she added cheerily. "She's just bored. Likes getting a rise out of people."

I turned back to the publican in wonderment.

She was shaking her head with an indulgent smile playing on her lips. "Valga Vinicia, at your service," she introduced. "What can I get you? Need a drink on your way to a better, brighter place, or can I interest you in a room for the night? It's only ten septims - twelve, if you want breakfast. Nice shipment of bacon came in just this afternoon."

"Then...I'll have a room and breakfast, please," I retrieved some money from the small satchel on my hip.

Valga smiled pleasantly and retrieved a log book and quill from under the bar.

"And, some advice," I added, made more confident by her helpful manner. "I'm in need of a horse on the morrow, but I didn't see stables on my way through town. Could you direct me to them? I have a map-" I swung my backpack around, meaning to locate it.

Valga glanced up and hesitated in the process of inking her quill, shaking her head regretfully. "No stables in Falkreath, dear. Town's too small for one. Your closest stables are Whiterun."

My stomach lurched. _Looks like you're walking to Cyrodiil, after all._

"Where are you bound anyway?" she asked, but in the tone that told me she was now fishing for gossip. "There are supply carts that go 'tween here and Rorikstead once a week. You could hitch a ride, for a fee. That would get you most of the way to Whiterun for your horse."

"I'm..." I hesitated, then shook my head, placing the money on the counter. "Actually, it doesn't matter. I'll figure something else out."

Valga showed me to my room - a tiny chamber no larger than my closet in Proudspire. It contained a single bed against one wall and a storage closet on the other. Valga spoke just as cheerily as earlier and I nodded and reacted in all the appropriate places, only vaguely listening to her.

When she closed the door, I stared at the stained panels for a heartbeat, then darted back and locked it.

 _Did you expect every town Skyrim to be like Solitude,_ I mocked myself?

In truth, I had, and I felt a bit ashamed at my naivety. I had rarely travelled outside of Solitude, and when I had it had been with my parents to the more metropolitan regions of Tamriel. What I had seen in Falkreath so starkly contrasted to all that I had ever known that it brought a harsh light of reality to my largely improvised decision to travel to the Imperial City.

Yet still, I was committed to continuing. If I did not wish to remain in Falkreath, I would need to either walk to Whiterun for a horse, or set out for the border on foot.

I wrapped my cloak around me as I lay on the cold, hard bed in my travelling clothes – for I had brought nothing else to wear. Staring up at the dark, wood-panelled ceiling, I traced the grain as I ran through my options again, weighing which might bring me faster to my destination. Slinking home with my tail between my legs was unacceptable - because I did not truly _want_ to go home. I wanted to hug my grandparents, and feel the warm sun on my face as I shopped in the Market district. I wanted to research the Way of the Voice using the wealth of knowledge available there, out of sight of whatever was about to erupt in Skyrim. And I wanted to have the best in the business repair my beloved lute, so that when my music filled me again, my instrument would be ready for me.

Sighing to the roof, I let my exhaustion overcome me. I would walk to the border, I decided as I drifted off. When I encountered the Legionnaires turning coaches back into Skyrim, one of them might loan me a horse.

–

"Are you sure about this, lass?" Norri called out from the verandah.

I leaped down the steps of the inn with a spring to my step. The sun was warm and a quarter of the way across the sky, and the day was bright and clear. Turning as my boots met the dirt road, I nodded and waved cheerily to the woman.

"Of course!" I affirmed merrily.

"It will be a grand adventure, if nothing else," Norri sounded jealous, but her smile was true. "Lucky for some!"

I bade her farewell and ambled through town, bound for the eastern gate.

I had woken feeling refreshed, and my mood had gotten better as the day had progressed. Determining a course of action that relied on nobody but myself and my own resources had lifted a weight off my shoulders, and I felt positive that I would encounter no further setbacks.

In the light of day, or perhaps in light of my _mood_ , Falkreath did not seem so sinister. The smithy was at his workbench, hammering away, and the red light glowing in the forge was no match for the bright sun. The Jarl's banners still fluttered in the breeze but they no longer seemed ghostly, and the guards flanking the front door acknowledged my wave with curt nods as I passed them.

I hadn't bothered to put my cloak on yet, as the walk would only make me warmer, so I made the journey through the heavily-wooded paths east of Falkreath in the dress I had chosen to travel to Cyrodiil in. It was a simple, traditional, comfortable pale-blue number with straight arms and a round neckline, edged in brown at its seams. My hair was swept back into a braid, though the morning breeze seemed to have something against it, and playfully battered the strands it freed around my face. The very sight of me would have offended my prim sister.

I smiled at the thought. How was she faring in Wayrest? She would have arrived days ago. Perhaps she had already enrolled for the next semester with the Mages' Guild? Whatever she was doing, I hoped she would find happiness.

The road was busier than I had thought it would be. I passed farmers and hunters aplenty travelling to Falkreath on foot laden with overflowing backpacks and their quarries. As I neared what looked like an even smaller settlement than Falkreath, I caught a flash of activity in the distance. Reaching a junction in the road, the signpost on the corner told me that the township was Helgen. As there would be no horses between here and Whiterun, I did not bother taking the road into it.

I took the road away instead, signed as the direction to Riften, and then the next right, which criss-crossed into the mountains. This was the start of the Pale Pass, that would lead me all the way into Cyrodiil. The road inclined steadily, and the air began to cool at once, though the pace I maintained kept me from feeling the chill.

While the road out of Falkreath had been busy, the road leading into the Jerall ranges was completely deserted.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, the air grew even cooler, and I had still passed nobody. How much longer to the border? Why hadn't I bypassed any Legionnaires yet? Had I taken a wrong turn?

A low growl from the side of the road knocked me out of my musings.

Glancing swiftly to my left for the owner of the snarl, I saw nothing unordinary. But I was neither armed nor capable of taking out anything larger than a rabbit (and perhaps not even that), so I hurried to the other side of the road and waited, pressing my back to the rocky wall, reasoning that by doing so, nothing could sneak up on me.

I waited and watched for signs of movement - but none came. My breath puffed in front of me in little white clouds as the skies darkened above me. I had not imagined the growl.

 _You really didn't think this through, did you_ , I berated, attempting to exercise patience. _You will be eaten by a bear, and nobody will ever know what became of you._

I shook my head. No, I hadn't thought of wildlife, because I assumed I would be travelling to Cyrodiil by _coach_.

Movement caught my attention, but it was not a bear, or any other creature that hunted at night.

It was two men walking along the road. They were deep in murmured conversation – but I knew they would see me soon enough. There was simply no cover on the mountain pass, only a few scant snowberry bushes, and tall, rocky, snow-capped crags.

My heart leapt when I made our their colours; they wore the Windhelm blue. There were white bears painted on their shields. They were Stormcloaks, Ulfric's men. My blood boiled, trapping me between anger and fear.

 _Calm down_ , I commanded. _They are not Ulfric. Ulfric is far from here, hiding in his castle and giving orders. They don't know you or care who you are. Walk, smile, wave hello, and keep walking. Don't say anything stupid._

I hurried back onto the road and slowed to a casual stroll. To them, I would be a wandering bard traversing the wilds of Skyrim for inspiration. I didn't think it wise to tell Stormcloaks I was bound for Cyrodiil.

The distance between us shrank, and I glanced over the crags either side of the pass, feigning distraction and introversion.

"You there!"

I turned calmly to face the Stormcloaks. They were five paces from me.

Blinking easily, I welcomed them with a smile and the practised pageantry of a bard. "Good afternoon! Merry evening, is it not?" I bowed low and flamboyantly.

Silence met my greeting. When I rose, haltingly glancing up, I found assessment in their gazes. The big blonde one with his arms crossed was wearing a frown, but seemed more confused than calculating. The other, with a mass of bushy red hair poking out from under his hide helmet, narrowed his eyes. It was a glare that pierced through my facade.

I had started this, so I had to maintain it, despite the fluttering of my heart. I rose to my full height. "I am Aleine," I gave my mother's name on a whim, "a wandering bard. I would offer to sing you a song but I'm afraid my lute is-"

"Did we ask who you were? You shouldn't be on this road," the ginger Stormcloak shook his head, cutting me off. The blonde one glanced to his fellow, but said nothing.

I stared between them and took a step back – I couldn't help myself. "Oh - really? I'm sorry, I must have - my map-" my nerves bubbled.

"That was a lot of free information you offered us," the blonde Stormcloak spoke finally, giving a brief nod to his fellow.

"I - what-?"

The fives paces were closed in two, and the Stormcloaks were beside me. Each grabbed an arm.

"Hey!" I cried, struggling for a moment, but I was no match for their combined strength. " _Unhand_ me - what is this-?" I spluttered.

"If you _are_ a _wandering bard_ ," the ginger one, holding my arm in a vice-like grip that clenched tigher as he spoke, cut me off, "then you are about to be given all the inspiration you'll ever need for your ballads, and we'll have you on your merry way before sun-up. But, if you are not," he left his sentence hanging.

"Please!" I winced. My years of training encouraged me to talk my way out of this. "I _am_ a bard!" I managed. "I have no reason to lie to you!"

"Lay off, Ramdir," the blonde one spoke. Without any more passing between them, they moved, towing me along the road. "And Aleine – calm down. We're taking you back to camp. Standard procedure, lass."

I closed my eyes. Why did it have to be _Stormcloaks_ at the Empire's border? Why hadn't I asked?

The soldiers towed me between them in silence, and I drifted between them at double the pace to keep up from being dragged.

 _Come on! Don't give up! You have been training to perform all these years. Perform!_

"As you wish," I conceded quietly. "Though I have told you everything already."

"It's not us you need to convince," the blonde shrugged. "Jarl Stormcloak will decide whether you are what you say you are," he added.

I stumbled on nothing as the blood drained from my face.

"Jarl...Jarl Stormcloak?" I stuttered. The soldiers righted me on my feet.

The one named Ramdir spoke with a twist to the corner of his mouth that might have been an attempt at a smile. "Already wet with awe. Like I said, lass, you'll be set for a lifetime. You're about to meet the man who fights for the sons and daughters of Skyrim with the courage and strength no king before him has carried. You can thank us later for bringing you to him."

I swallowed and nodded dimly. My shock had been interpreted as _reverence_.

My mind reeled. Ulfric Stormcloak was _here_?

 _If you say you're a bard, he will recognise you – remember you, from the Blue Palace. Won't he?_

As the soldiers led me, their grips loosened enough that I might have broken free. But there was nowhere to hide - and no way to outrun them if I tried.

 _You can't take back your story. What other reason could you have for being here that won't reveal your intentions?_

The soldiers spoke idly, but I didn't hear any of what they said; I was too terrified to notice anything but my own panicked thoughts. Eventually we left the road and began forging a descent between the mountains. Soon, the rocks flattened and we entered a wooded area, though quite a few of the trees were merely stumps. Through what remained of the trees, I made out flashes of blue material – tents? - and then heard the whinny and snicker of nearby horses.

The sound brought me back to myself; my predicament. If I could get to the horses, I _could_ escape.

The thought died as we turned and I was brought to a shabby-looking wooden gate made of logs sharpened at one end. One half was pushed back, and through the opening I saw crowds of blue-clad soldiers.

"Who's _this_ then, Ralof?" a woman asked with warm amusement.

I startled at the voice; glanced up to face a Stormcloak manning the gate. I hadn't even noticed she was there.

"Just a little bird wandering the roads seeking inspiration," the blonde guard - Ralof, I supposed - replied with nonchalance.

A guard on the opposite side of the gate huffed as Ralof and Ramdir led me through. "I was wondering when Jarl Stormcloak's courage would bring the bards flocking to his side."

 _Courage?!_ Seething within, all of my effort was put into maintaining a neutral expression. _The monster wants us to write songs about him? I would sooner die._

Row upon row of Stormcloak soldiers littered the encampment. I slowed, unable to stop myself from gaping at this enormous force Ulfric had rallied to his cause. There were _hundreds_ of soldiers here. They were all so casual about their betrayal of the Empire. Many were standing around fire pits, preparing their dinners, repairing armour, and sharpening weapons. Though night had fallen, it was impossible to feel the cold with so many bodies and fire pits around us.

Ralof and Ramdir hurried me along, and I stumbled again under their momentum.

 _Perform_ , I reminded myself in panic. _They will let you go if you promise to sing their song to the rest of Skyrim._

I felt ill at the prospect of praising _Ulfric Stormcloak_ ; the man responsible for the destruction of my family. But if I was being taken to him, I had little choice if I wanted to live.

 _Remember your promise_ , I tried to placate the anger bubbling within me. _Learn the Way of the Voice, first. Use his words against him. You can't win if you engage him now._

I nodded, resolved, and took in a deep, shuddering breath of air. _I can do this._

The Stormcloaks flanking me relaxed their holds as we approached a large tent near the centre of the encampment. It was three times the size of the other tents littering the borders and was made of darker hide than the rest of them. Either side of the entryway stood tall, blue standards, each of which bore the Windhelm bear.

"I'll take her," Ralof spoke. When I glanced to him, his focus was on Ramdir. "Your watch ended hours ago – go to the fire pits and have an ale."

The ginger Stormcloak didn't seem happy about Ralof's dismissal, but he didn't speak against it. The blonde Nord must have outranked him.

With a bit of a shove, Ramdir released my left arm. "Right you are, Ralof."

Once Ramdir was gone, Ralof turned me to face him, regarding me with a hard look. His grip on my arm tightened in warning.

"Now is the time for truths, Aleine," his low, thick accent, murmured; his tone somewhat imploring. "You are about to stand before Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim. He will not be kind if you are to be found lying to us."

I stared at the burly Nord and made an attempt to twist my arm out of his grip. "You do not need to hold me so tightly," I managed through clenched teeth. "There is no reason for me to run."

 _Great_. My words were fine; my tone _was not_. I had all but condemned myself to this soldier.

Ralof's mouth flattened into a grim line as he accepted my response and released my arm, only to grab both of my wrists and close them together in one meaty fist. He shouldered past me and stepped into the tent.

It was dark within. My eyes darted around the tent, straining through the gloom to catch a glimpse of Ulfric Stormcloak, but Ralof was blocking my view. I made out maps pinned to the hide walls either side of us, and the occasional table and empty chair.

Ralof stopped near the rear of the tent and brought me up to stand beside him. We stood before a table, on which lay a large map of the provinces of Skyrim. The map was littered with pins of various colours, positioned around the holds.

My eyes widened at the map. Whatever else the Stormcloaks were; I could not deny that they were organised.

"My Jarl, we have found an Imperial spy wandering the Pale Pass heading for Cyrodiil-" Ralof spoke.

Glancing sideways, I flashed Ralof an incredulous look.

"I'm not a spy!" I spluttered.

Ralof glanced down at me with a calm expression and lifted his eyebrows.

With a huff, I realised he'd only said it to gauge my reaction. I flushed and turned away from his look of victory, setting my focus on the man across the table; the one who was as large as a bear, whose blonde hair drifted around his chiselled face like a wild mane. He was leant over the table with his elbows on it, but was still taller than me. His eyes _knew_ me, and they were like ice, slicing through my white-hot indignation to leave a fear so potent that I wavered.

Ralof's grip on my wrist tightened and he held me upright as my knees buckled.

With a sickening pang, I was certain that he recognised me.

"You have brought a spy into our midst?" Ulfric's baritone rumbled.

The blonde Nord righted me, and then nodded. "She says her name is Aleine, and that she is a wandering bard – but I don't see any instruments to speak of-"

"I told you, it's broken," I closed my eyes in panic. "My lute – it was smashed when the – several days ago," I swallowed thickly. "I am journeying to Riften. I heard there's a maker there who might repair it."

Heavy silence met my explanation. After a deep, what I told myself was steadying breath, I opened my eyes and made myself look at him.

"You are a long way from Riften, Aleine," Ulfric murmured in a bored way, then lazily nodded at Ralof. "Search her."

Ralof let go of my wrists and I slammed my eyes shut. His hands fell to my pack and lifted it from my shoulders. I remained perfectly still and tried to breath steadily - to breathe my calming pre-performance breaths. Large hands patted down either side of my body, perfunctory and fleeting.

 _When they find your broken lute, all will be well,_ I told myself, over and over.

"She's unarmed, my Jarl."

"Her possessions, then," Ulfric prompted.

I opened my eyes with a sigh of relief, and turned to Ralof as he unlaced my pack.

"The hide on the front," I encouraged. "What remains of my lute is wrapped there."

Ralof ignored my suggestion and reached into my pack, withdrawing the journal on top.

"A spy trying to disguise herself as a bard might carry an instrument unable to be played," Ulfric Stormcloak sighed.

I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to face him. I pinked during the silence that followed. A different fear took hold of my senses; sudden, frantic and desperate. It knocked the wind out of me and my eyes widened as I stared at the journal Ralof was holding. It was the journal I had written the account of the High King's murder in, on the night my parents had died.

 _No._

"It's - one of my song books," I spoke quickly – too quickly. Ralof's furrowed glance cut through me like a knife.

"Give it to me," Ulfric demanded swiftly in a tone that would not tolerate refusal.

Ralof cast me a look of disappointment, and passed my journal to the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion.


	5. Voice of Fate

_Chapter 5: Voice of Fate_

I wondered what would happen if I fled?

Would Ralof leap at me and drag me back? Would Stormcloak Shout at me, sending me crashing into the tent wall? Was there any chance that I would make it to the door - but, then what? Escape through an army of Stormcloaks outside?

No. If I ran, I was dead. I _had_ to face this. I had to _fix_ this.

I held my chin up a little higher. I was not, as they assumed, a spy for the Imperial Legion. No matter what they accused me of, they could not prove something that simply wasn't true.

Ulfric's ice-blue eyes flickered across the pages of my journal as he read; his face set in a brooding half-scowl.

I could no longer remain silent. I had to try and tell them the truth.

Well, some of it.

"I was at the Blue Palace that night," I admitted; my voice scratchy as my throat trembled. "You are reading the tormented thoughts of a girl whose parents were just murdered, not a report for the Legion," I tried to reign back a snarl.

Ulfric glanced up to me swiftly, unemotional. I froze, like a startled deer, and my strength fled.

"Ah, that sounds more like a voice of truth," Ralof broke the silence with a mutter. His firm hand landed on my shoulder as he said it.

I startled, and the lapse broke the hold Ulfric Stormcloak had over me.

"I always told you the truth," I implored, glancing to the soldier. His eyes were also blue, but not as piercing as his leader's, so I could bear the weight. "I _am_ a bard. My lute was broken. I am travelling to find someone to fix it," I turned back to Ulfric Stormcloak and squared him with a flat look, "as it was destroyed the night my parents were killed."

Ulfric had either finished reading, or had read enough. He closed my journal calmly – _too_ calmly – and placed it on the table before him. Idly, he rested his hand on top of it.

"What did you say her name was again?" he asked Ralof in that infuriatingly measured baritone. It was a tone that both gave away nothing, and at the same time sealed my fate.

"Aleine."

I clenched my jaw, determined not to react. _Why_ had I given them my mother's name?

"I see."

I couldn't bare it. I swallowed my fear, but closed my eyes. The sounds of movement drifted to my ears as heavy defeat settled over me.

"You think what I did was wrong," Ulfric stated.

He was close; I startled as my eyes shot open.

I was face-to-face with Jarl Stormcloak. He was leaning down to me; inspecting me. He was close enough that I could see flecks of grey in his hair and beard, and smell his dinner on his breath. Ralof's hold tightened when I instinctively leaned back.

"Answer me," he spoke again, but was still too calm. He withdrew and stood, looming over me at his full height.

I stared up and up as his form cast a shadow over me. I was too afraid to refuse - but why did he need me to confirm what he had found in my journal?

"You have read what I think," I stammered. The words poured out of me with a fearful quaver. "Your men cut my parents down as you fled Solitude. You say you fight for the people of Skyrim but the value of their lives, and who their deaths might impact, didn't cross your mind."

My words somehow loaned me courage, despite the meekness I felt.

"So, yes. I believe what you did was wrong. Any who witnessed what I saw would think the same," I concluded in a lowered tone.

"And you were bound for Cyrodiil?" Ulfric continued smoothly, unaffected.

Had he not been moved at all by what I had said? Crestfallen, I nodded.

"I was alone in Solitude," would playing the weeping maiden win me any mercy? It was all I had left to try; the truth had won me no favour. "I am travelling to what remains of my family. My grandparents are all I have left."

Ulfric eyes flickered back and forth over my face as he listened and weighed me. He reached a hand out; one as large as my face. I held a breath and flinched when he grasped my chin in just two of his fingers. His grip was harder than necessary, but I bore it without a sound, too frightened to cry out, while he turned my head from side to side.

He released my face quickly and his hands were then on the neckline of my dress, shifting it aside to tug at the necklace I had placed my father's – _my_ \- ring on. Ulfric turned the Passero seal; tiny in his hands; wearing a thoughtful frown as he examined it.

The seconds ticked by, and I agonised over my fate while I remained perfectly still.

Did it matter if he believed me or not? He knew who I was. I had been brought into his hidden camp and seen his strategy map. He would be a fool to let me walk out of here.

Releasing my ring, the mass of muscle and fur leaned back with a burdened sigh.

"She is the daughter of one of Torygg's Thanes," he told Ralof in a bored voice. "If she is not a spy now," he strode around the table to where he had been positioned when we had arrived, "she will become one, should we set her free."

Tears pooled in my eyes. _You're a prisoner of war, now. Well done, Celeste._

Ulfric wasn't finished.

"I leave it to you, Ralof, to extract what you can from her to aid our cause," his eyes settled on me with cold determination, and a challenge. "Dispose of what's left of the body. We can't have them finding her."

 _What?_

"As you wish, my Jarl."

I was turned by Ralof, but felt nothing. Fear consumed me, muting all else. I glanced up to the blonde Stormcloak in earnest.

"Please, Ralof no," I begged, my voice choked and weak and desperate. "I know _nothing_. I don't want anything to do with this war."

"Your cowardice brings dishonour to your family, Celeste Passero," Ulfric called from the back of the tent. "What would your ancestors make of you?"

Ralof gave me a stern, sideways glance, but said nothing.

Then before I could couple together another plea for my life, a keening whistle cut through the air. The tent collapsed in on one side, then burst into flames.

Ralof threw me behind him and drew his sword and I screamed, landing hard on my knees. My hands flew forward; my palms, rather than my face, met the hard-packed earth, and I winced as my wrists throbbed from the sudden impact.

"For the Emperor!" a roar sounded over the destruction.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof raced to the back of the tent. Screams and battle-cries erupted beyond the crackle and roar of the roasting canvas. My vision swam when I glanced up, as though I was watching the rippling fire and bodies darting by the tent's opening from underwater.

Another whistle pierced the air, and another section of Ulfric's tent collapsed in a heap of flames. Silhouettes of armed figures clouded the doorway, and in a flash of movement that startled me anew, Ralof and Ulfric raced past me.

" _FUS_."

The tent wavered as air rushed forward in a curling shock-wave. The bodies at the entrance to the burning tent were flung aside by the force.

 _Force._ Again, the word bounced between my ears, hissing as it echoed. The sound managed to do what the unfurling attack and blazing fire had not been able to; it urged me to _move_.

I grabbed my pack but left the journal on the table - it was too far away - and darted for the door. Whatever was happening, it couldn't have been better timed. All I had to do was keep out of everyone's way and find the horses.

Ralof and Jarl Stormcloak stopped when they reached the exit and Ulfric Shouted at whatever was beyond. I halted three paces behind them, silently urging them to hurry up as the tent canvas blazed around us. My desire to remain unseen and forgotten would do me no good if the tent collapsed on top of us.

When they ran on, I leapt into action after them. Perhaps I could use the path Ulfric was forging through the fracas to make my own escape.

But they had not taken more than a step outside when a legion of Imperial guards fell onto them. Ralof was restrained and his sword was torn from him and cast aside. Ulfric was tackled to the ground; pressed to the earth by five Imperial soldiers. I remained two steps inside the burning tent, out of sight, praying frantically for them to _go_ so I could flee before the flames consumed me.

Ulfric roared in anger then tried to Shout the Legion off him. It didn't work; a heavy punch landed on his temple and _Fus_ pushed at the earth beneath them, rocking the soldiers but not enough to let Stormcloak go. They had been ready for him this time, and even as the soldiers reinforced their hold to keep him down, one of them wound a piece of cloth around his head, tightening it over his mouth and forcing it between his teeth.

"We have him!" an Imperial officer cheered. I watched, wide-eyed and victorious as Ralof and Ulfric were lifted and moved away, before I rushed out of the tent, to make myself known to the Empire.

A smile played on my lips as I realised that I _wasn't_ going to die tonight, after all.

"Thank the _Divines_ you-"

I was surrounded by Imperial soldiers with their swords drawn and pointed toward me.

"Yield!" one of them cried. "Arms up where I can see them!"

I screamed and raised my hands in surrender.

"We have captured your leader! It's over!" another shouted at the same moment.

"You don't understand, I'm their prisoner!" I insisted.

One of the soldiers lowered his sword, but only to restrain me. "A likely story," he pulled my pack from my shoulders and looped a rope around my wrists. "You're under arrest, by the authority of the Imperial Legion."

"No, you don't need to do this," I licked my lips and crossed my brows at the man binding my hands. "My name is Celeste Passero. I'm not a Stormcloak!"

"Passero, eh?" the man tugged on my bindings to secure the knot, then stepped back, nodding to one of his comrades and handing her my pack.

I nodded emphatically.

The one who'd been instructed to take me spoke. "What are you doing with the Stormcloaks?"

My eyes darted to her and I opened my mouth to tell them, again, that I was a prisoner.

But the soldier who had tied my bindings spoke before I could. "If Ulfric has one of the Passero daughters on his side it would certainly explain how he managed to get in and out of Solitude."

"What?" I stammered. A flash of anger surged through me like a bolt of lightning. "He killed my father, for Shor's sake!"

"She's wearing his colours, and there are no signs of torture," the woman restraining me replied.

I whipped my head to her in horror. My head thumped, jarred from the aghast turning I was doing to keep up with their conversation.

" _And_ she emerged from his tent. If she's not his spy, she's his doxy," the other flashed me a dark look.

"How _dare_ you!" I shouted, struggling to break free. "I'm a member of the Passero family and a loyal citizen of the Empire!"

"Stormcloak probably promised to legitimise her if she helped him," he shook his head as his dark look persisted. "We don't take kindly to treason in the Empire, girl."

Was I speaking another language?!

"Won't you listen to me?" I cried out. "I _despise_ Stormcloak - I want him dead!" fury was making me livid; my words blurted out of me in a staccato of barely controlled sentences. How could the Empire – _my Empire_ – accuse me of being the _whore_ of Ulfric Stormcloak?!

"We seem to have struck a nerve," the soldier securing me said after a pause. She walked, towing me toward the gates of the now ruined encampment.

The fire pits we had woven between less than an hour earlier were scattered. Flames consumed the tents on the borders, sending bright sparks up into the night's sky. The encampment was almost quiet and empty of the living, and the ground was littered with the bodies of fallen Stormcloaks and Legionnaires alike.

I was led by so many fallen men and women wearing the Windhelm blue that I was startled to recognise Ramdir among them; bent and broken with his expression frozen in a snarl and dark blood pooling from a gouge in his neck. The sight was like a kick to the stomach. It had started and ended so quickly. My rage was quenched as tears welled in my eyes.

"Maybe you are telling the truth, lass," the soldier leading me continued in a more logical voice. "But if you have half a brain, and _are_ for the Empire, you must understand how your presence here looks to us. You say you were their prisoner, but you weren't restrained. You walked straight out of Ulfric Stormcloak's tent. The General can decide whether you are telling the truth or not."

"Thank you," I managed to gasp, trying to shake my eyes free of tears. "I swear I am telling you the truth."

"I'm not the one you need to convince," was all the reply I got.

I huffed bleakly; had Ralof not said almost the same words to me, only hours earlier? A wariness to the woman's tone loaned me no confidence. It made me feel as though my ordeal was just beginning.

–

To my utter horror, I was placed on the cart with both Ralof and Ulfric and my pack was thrown into the hold underneath it. I had shuffled as far away as I could from them and the other prisoners as soon as I had been tethered to them, praying that the Divines would strike them where they sat.

None of the others had said anything to me, or even looked at me, at first. Stormcloak held his back straight and his head up, glaring daggers at the Legion officer driving the cart. The filthy rag around his head silencing him looked uncomfortable.

The thought of him being unable to Shout his way out of this lifted my spirits. There was satisfaction in seeing him like this. He was like a caged bear, poised and watching for any opportunity to lash out at those in his way. But I knew the Empire. They would not drop their guard. And soon, he would answer for all he had wrought; answer for the lives he had taken.

Perhaps the war would end before it began now, and there would be no more bloodshed.

"I'm sorry."

It was Ralof's voice, drifting toward me as the cart leading us to – where? - ambled along the track.

I glared along the bench seat to see the blonde Stormcloak frowning at me. His hair was thick with mud, as was one side of his face. He must have been pressed to the ground at some point. His wrists were shackled and chained to the bar that we were all chained to - the one that prevented us from leaping off the cart and disappearing into the woods in the dead of night.

"You're sorry?" I asked, my voice leaving me in monotone.

He grimaced and nodded. "If you were a Legion spy, they would not have put you in here with the rest of us."

 _No kidding._ Frustration poured through me but I eased it with the promise the Imperial soldier had made to me; that the General - and I assumed that meant General Tullius – would decide whether or not I was telling the truth.

I did not know the General, but my father had known him. He would not let anything happen to me. I _had_ to keep telling myself that.

I glanced away from Ralof, ensuring that my face remained expressionless. To engage with him would not serve my purposes. Instead, I focussed on the snow-tipped crags either side of the road.

Ralof sighed and shuffled, but did not speak again.

The cart carried on through the night, steadily winding down the mountain pass I had been climbing earlier that day. Legion soldiers flanked our cart, and several others trailed behind us. Most had bows out with arrows nocked and ready; to take out anything that might jump at us in the night.

Or to shoot us, if we managed to escape our bindings and tried to flee.

The descent seemed to take longer than my walk had, but perhaps it only felt that way because I had nothing to do except watch our progress and muse over my own fate.

The ride was very uncomfortable. Unable to doze, I planned what I would say to the General when I was brought to him. Fleetingly, I would panic about what I would do if he didn't believe me, and would count stars in an effort to calm down. Eventually the path levelled out and the cart turned onto the pass that led through the flat, heavily wooded area. At the crossroads, it turned toward Helgen.

 _Good_ , I thought with a sigh of relief. We were being taken to Helgen. There must have been an Imperial camp there. The General would be there. I _wouldn't_ have to return to Solitude.

The sun glinted at us through the trees, and Ralof spoke again.

"Have you been studying at the college for long?"

I ignored him. He was trying to be kind, but I had not forgotten that, prior to the Legion attack, he had agreed to extract information from me, and then kill me. He was only trying to assuage his guilt.

"A _bard_?" another prisoner asked with a snarl. I glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow. He was wearing common clothes, not armour, and I crossed my brows as I looked him up and down. He was not a soldier.

"What's a _bard_ doing messing around with the damned Stormcloaks? Singing their praises already?" he sneered.

"Better that they sing about brave men and women fighting for their country than your song, thief," Ralof replied in a dark rumble.

The man – thief – glared at Ralof. "Oh _yes_ , because you've all made Skyrim _so much safer,_ stirring up the Empire with your noble war, haven't you? I'd be in Hammerfell right now if it wasn't for you lot."

The Legionnaire driving us called over his shoulder for silence. Both Ralof and the thief obeyed. I glanced between the pair, but the diversion seemed to be at its end. Sighing, I sat back, stretching my fingertips to shift my shackles so that I could rub at the skin around them. My wrists ached where the rope was tied.

Helgen seemed to emerge from between the trees; its gates wide open, expecting us. I caught flashes of red banners beyond; the Empire's standards.

"What's wrong with this one, then?" the thief grumbled. He made to kick Ulfric Stormcloak in the boot with his own, but he was out of reach.

 _All_ of the Stormcloaks on our cart – and there were six in total, including Ralof – cried out in anger, shouting and swearing at the man.

The thief's eyes were as insolent as before, but there was no hiding his startle as he sat up tall and stared defiantly around him.

"Keep it down!" the soldier driving our cart called back again. I caught movement in the corner of my eye; my head whipped around. It was the soldiers, flanking our cart. They'd drawn closer; their bows half-risen in warning.

When the Stormcloaks closed their mouths, glaring as one at the mouthy thief, I couldn't hide my smirk. The thief must have caught it, for his eyes flashed to me in accusation.

I spoke before he could in an undertone, so as not to annoy the guards. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak. The Empire have caught him."

The thief's eyes widened. His eyes flickered between me and the gagged Ulfric.

"But...but!" he spluttered. "But that means-!"

He closed his mouth with an audible snap then, and glanced furtively around us with panic plain on his features and desperation glazing his watery eyes.

We entered Helgen, and I turned with interest to look upon the township, relieved that this horrible journey would soon be over. I spotted General Tullius on horseback a little way from the gate beside a High Elf in Thalmor regalia.

"What are the _Thalmor_ doing here?" Ralof hissed through clenched teeth.

I had to admit that the sight of a Dominion agent had taken me back, too. The Empire's alliance with the Thalmor was perceived, by both sides, as a necessary evil. The White-Gold Concordat had brought an end to a different time of bloodshed, but the outlawing of Talos worship had never sat well in Skyrim.

The sight of the Thalmor agent with the Military Governor ruffled everybody on our cart. The Stormcloaks glared and their hands twitched convulsively, as though trying to reach for the weapons they had been relieved of during their capture. The thief shrunk back, trying to be absorbed into the wall of the cart.

The Thalmor's eerie golden gaze flit over me and I shuddered, but sat straight. I glanced to the General in the hope that he too would make eye contact. He would recognise me, I assured myself...despite never having met me. That was beside the point. He would see immediately that I was not supposed to be chained up with this rabble of thieves and murderous rebels.

But the General's eyes were narrowed and fixed on only one man; Ulfric Stormcloak.

"General Tullius sir; the headsman is waiting!" a voice cut through the air.

I froze. _What?_

"Good," I heard the General's sighed reply. "Let's get this over with."

"No!" the thief screamed suddenly.

My head whipped to him; he was frantically trying to tear his hands out of his shackles.

"I'm not part of this! I'm not a rebel! You have to believe me!"

Townsfolk in Helgen were gathering around a watchtower with faces both curious and solemn. Shop window shutters and doors snapped shut as we closed in on our final destination. An ocean of hazy disbelief descended over me as the cart slowed, then stopped.

The thief's terror-filled pleas continued to come, and continued to fall on deaf ears. The Legion officers were impassive and measured, and the townsfolk pointedly glanced away from our cart, as though by looking upon us they might be accused of sympathising with us.

 _Us_ , I questioned myself suddenly?

The sound of metal being unbolted caught my attention. The back of the cart was being let down.

It was a woman – a Legate, from the looks of the armour. Her face wore a scowl and given the circumstances, I couldn't blame her. Executions always brought out the worst in everybody; nobody wanted to see a person's head cut from their shoulders, but they were unfortunately, morbidly fascinating.

 _Execution_.

The word echoed in my head and I shook myself to make it stop. There was a tug on my wrists, and I went with it. I was dragged down off the cart and once at the edge, my shackles slid off the bar that had kept us in place. My boots landed on hard-packed, dusty earth.

I glanced around desperately, but couldn't see the General anywhere any more. The Stormcloaks surrounding me blocked almost everything.

I was shoved back by a Stormcloak shifting in front of me, and large, bound hands caught me in the middle of my back.

"Face your death with courage, little one," Ralof murmured as he righted me on my feet. "Sovngarde awaits us."

I glanced over my shoulder at him, my mouth moving but not speaking. I wasn't going to Sovngarde. I – I wasn't going to die! They wouldn't just...just, cut my head off, without asking for my story, without _listening_ to me!

"Form a line," the stern Legate commanded in a booming voice. "Walk forward as your name is called."

"Damn Empire and their queues," Ralof grumbled behind me.

As the Stormcloaks shuffled, I stepped back, behind Ralof, wondering if I could lose myself in the crowd.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," a mild accent called out.

All eyes fell to the large, glaring man as he held his chin high and stepped toward the block, utterly fearless. He stopped before the shorter, smaller General Tullius.

More names were called. Ralof's was the only one I recognised. The blonde Stormcloak strode forward to join his company with a look of determined pride on his features.

When the thief – it eventuated that his name was Lokir – heard the call, whatever remained of his sense, or courage if he'd ever had any, left him. He screamed in terror about injustice, and tried to bolt.

My eyes followed his form in mute horror as the Legate ordered him to stop. When he didn't, she ordered the soldiers to fire.

The thief Lokir was taken out by a volley of arrows before he'd made it half way to the gate.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the woman turned back and yelled at the prisoners. There was pink on her cheeks, and I wondered if she was angry, or embarrassed?

"Who are you?" someone asked in quiet confusion. It was the same voice that had called out the names of the others.

I dragged my widened eyes from Lokir's toppled form and glanced up to the young officer. His uncertainty at my appearance was very apparent, making him seem the least disengaged of the soldiers within Helgen's walls. I had the notion that he had been in charge of recording the names of those captured, and that he'd not been told of me.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," the General's voice came at a distance, and I turned to observe him. "You are charged with the murder of High King Torygg. You plunged Skyrim into chaos, and it is my duty to see that you and your kind are put down to restore the peace."

"You're not on the list," the soldier brought my attention back to him.

I shook my head as I swallowed and turned back, staring up into eyes the colour of a storm. Eyes that carried intelligence; even kindness.

 _He_ was my chance. I had to take it. I commanded myself to _speak_.

"N-no," I stammered. My lip shook pathetically. "My name is Celeste. Passero," I added with haste.

The Imperial officer frowned as he positioned his quill to jot my name down, then his eyes snapped back to me in recognition. He looked me up and down swiftly.

"What are you doing with the Stormcloaks?" he asked with the same edge of wariness to his tone that the others asking me had used.

"I was taken prisoner-" I began, but was cut off by a far away, echoing keen. I glanced around for the source. It had sounded like a distant – very distant – scream.

"-for using the Voice to murder the High King and usurp his throne, you are sentenced to immediate execution," the General's charges fell to my ears, and I realised that nobody else had heard the sound.

"Their prisoner?" the soldier with the list brought me back again.

Nodding, I tried to dislodge the echo of the strange noise from my mind and focused on the soldier, since he was taking the time to listen to me.

"What's the hold up, Hadvar?" the Legate appeared between us with one hand on her hip and glanced at the book he was holding.

The soldier – Hadvar – pointed his quill at me. "She's not on the list. She says-"

"Forget the list," she cut him off. "Everyone caught with the Stormcloaks goes to the block, you know the orders," her sharp eyes turned to me. "Get a move on, girl, over with the others," she ordered.

"No – wait," I brought my fingers to my neckline, withdrawing my ring. "I'm a Passero. My family has served-"

" _Passero_?" the Legate's eyes narrowed even more as she reached out and took the ring between her fingers. She examined it for a moment, turning it a little, then her eyes flickered back and raked over me.

"She says she was their prisoner, Legate," Hadvar spoke up. He'd craned his neck to look over his superior's shoulder to stare at my ring as well.

"I am – was," I corrected hurriedly, licking my lips. Relief filled me.

"As we command your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up and get this over with!"

Our attention was caught by a commotion at the chopping block. The priestess of Arkay looked affronted, but stayed silent, and the Stormcloak soldier who had cried out and stopped her prayer strode over to the block and knelt down. The Legate continued to turn my ring between her fingers, though her eyes were trained on the action.

The Stormcloak with a death wish placed his head on the block.

I held my breath – I couldn't help it. The hooded executioner cast a swift glance General Tullius' way, out of confusion I expected.

General Tullius gave him a sharp nod in return.

The executioner raised his axe.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," the Stormcloak jibed. "Can you say the same?"

 _THUNK_.

My eyes clenched shut at the last second as I winced. There were cries of dismay from the Stormcloaks and jeers from the townsfolk who had been bold enough to stay and watch. The Imperial soldiers remained solemnly silent.

"Miss Passero," the Legate released my ring; it thudded against the front of my dress.

I opened my eyes. She was still watching the execution, despite having addressed me. I felt ill at how unfazed she seemed by the man's death.

"I find it difficult to believe that you chose to travel from the safety of Solitude, stumbled into Stormcloak's hidden encampment on the border and was taken prisoner by them, yet bear no marks indicating you have been tortured for information. However," her eyes were back on me, and the fire behind them sent fear jolting through me.

"What seems _far_ more plausible is that you have been _with_ the Stormcloaks all this time, using your knowledge and father's position to feed them information, including a viable escape route from the Blue Palace after the High King's murder," she concluded.

I shook my head desperately as my eyes widened – she had come to the same wrong – _painfully_ wrong – conclusion that those who found me had. But before I could speak, the strange, echoing noise from earlier rang out again – closer this time.

This time, others heard it too, and through the fog of the sound there were questions, then cries of alarm as the earth shook beneath us briefly.

I held my arms forward in an attempt to keep balanced, but the shaking ceased almost as soon as it had begun.

"Carry on!" General Tullius called out over the rabble.

The soldier Hadvar spoke up quickly then, surprising me, as it sounded as though he was speaking in my _defence_.

"If she is guilty of such a crime, it amounts to treason but warrants further questioning," he glanced to me briefly, his eyes conveying a message I didn't receive in time. The Legate turned to face him incredulously.

"To what end, Hadvar? We are ending this war, here, today. We have our orders," she fixed me with an impassive look. "Everybody caught at the Stormcloak camp goes to the block. You can go next."

She grabbed my arm and turned me, giving me a little shove toward it. I stumbled away from her as the kind-eyed Hadvar spoke up again quite hurriedly.

"Ma'am, regardless of her crime, it is clear she is not a soldier – we risk _nothing_ by-"

"Speak out of turn again, soldier, and I'll drag you to the block after her."

I shuddered and closed my eyes. A hand fell to my bindings and led me forward.

"I'm sorry," Hadvar's reply drifted to me through my fog of defeat. He was apologising to the Legate, but, as his was likely to be the last voice of kindness that I would ever hear, I pretended that he was saying sorry to me.

 _Thank you_ , I thought in reply. My feet ambled through the mud of their own accord, and I opened my eyes only when the soldier leading me stopped and turned me.

I was before the block. A hand fell to my back, urging me to my knees. If there were commands being issued, I did not hear them. My head buzzed with consuming disbelief as a hand between my shoulder blades urged me down; my cheek landed on the blood-soaked surface.

It was sticky and cool, painted with the blood of the soldier who had gone before me. My vision fogged as I glanced sideways and up, and found the headsman. He was a very tall, thick-set man, with a black hood covering his face. He lifted a large, heavy axe above his head.

Something black shot across the cloudy sky behind him.

I wanted to close my eyes, but found myself unable to. Perhaps this was how imminent death worked; perhaps my body was no longer my own to control. I knew that I should have been praying to the Divines so that they would guide, if not save me, but couldn't summon any suitable pleas. My mind was blank, and open, and waiting.

An unearthly roar tore through the calm. The very air vibrated and hummed. The earth shook as an enormous black form crashed down onto the watchtower beyond the headsman. An unmistakably lizard-like head rose and roared in fury to the heavens; a horrific scream, piercing the void of my mind and demanding that I acknowledge – and submit to it.

I obeyed. I dragged my mind out of the pit it had retreated to in preparation for my death and took in my surrounds. There were explosions everywhere - enormous fireballs, raining down on the town - and the screams of the soldiers and villagers of Helgen joined it in terrible, agonising harmony.

The headsman dropped his axe and ran. Other blurred shapes, bodies I assumed, flit around me, darting for cover – but I remained kneeling before the execution block, lifting my head from the sticky surface to observe better.

But the black creature on the watchtower – what was unmistakably a _dragon_ from legends – demanded all of my attention. I stared, compelled, and the tiny, fury-filled eyes in the lizard-like head found and pierced me. All of its attention was very suddenly on _me_.

It spoke, but through the sounds of destruction raining down on the township, the words left the maw of the enormous creature as a series of indistinguishable hisses. Its words burned through my veins, setting my soul alight. At once I felt both completely insignificant, and utterly invincible.

The black dragon opened its mouth as it leaned down. An idle, unhurried thought floated to me; it was about to attack, and I should probably move.

" _Yol_..." the dragon's rasp formed a word. Golden flames began to ball in its mouth.

 _Fire_ , my mind echoed, enthralled.

A strong hand gripped the back of my dress and tugged me up, onto my feet and out of the path of the fire shooting out of the creature's gaping mouth.

"Keep close to me if you want to stay alive!"

It was the soldier who had tried to speak for me - Hadvar. I stared curiously up at him. Why had he saved me? His eyes were fiercely determined, locked onto the dragon; watching, and waiting.

" _Toor SHUL_!"

 _Inferno sun._

The heat of the dragon's fire broke me free of whatever spell it had held me under. Hadvar grabbed my hand and started towing me after him toward the cluster of stone buildings on the other side of town.

"Wait, no – my lute!" I remembered suddenly. Turning, I tried to tug Hadvar back to the cart.

" _Yol...Toor SHUL_ ," the dragon screamed again. The ground before us was consumed by a steady stream of flames. Hadvar skidded back to keep us from running directly into it and, thrown off balance, I flailed to keep from being flung forward by my own momentum. Without a word, Hadvar turned and dragged me in a different direction, darting between two buildings.

"But my lute!" I repeated. It was all I had - I couldn't _bear_ the thought of it being consumed by dragon's flames after coming so far with me! " _Please_ , Hadvar – I _must_ go back for it!" I tried to pull free of him.

He slowed to a stop when we reached the end of the buildings, but his grip held fast.

An Imperial officer ran past us, covered in flames and screaming, but didn't stop running. It was so confronting that I unconsciously shuddered back and pressed against the wall of the house. Hadvar fell back as well, and it wasn't a moment too soon; with a mighty _CRASH_ , the wall we were leaning against trembled and a huge, black tail swiped down in between the buildings. If we hadn't moved, we would have been collected by it.

There was a squeeze to my hand, and I realised that Hadvar was still holding it. Either he was trying to be comforting, or he was warning me. In acknowledgement, I squeezed back.

A huge, fiery rock crashed down at the end of our alley, rolling to block the path to the main courtyard. Despite the _boom_ of explosion, I still heard Hadvar curse under his breath.

With another shudder to the building, the dragon launched itself over our hiding spot and into the air, speaking the words of fire and flicking its maw about, setting the houses and what ground the flames could take hold of alight in a sweeping arc.

Again, I was transfixed, and again, Hadvar propelled us into action. He hauled me after him, back in the direction we had come.

"I'm sorry, but your lute is gone," he called out over the screams and explosions as we ran into a smaller courtyard and darted across it. Hadvar veered toward a small wooden doorway in one of the watchtowers. "If we make it out of Helgen today, I'll buy you a new one."

 _It won't be the same_ , I wanted to explain. But despite my attachment to the battered and broken instrument, the decimation we had witnessed forced me to accept that it was simply impossible to go back for it.

Without warning, Hadvar whipped to the left, propelling me behind him and drawing his sword.

"Ralof, you damned traitor!" he snarled. "Get out of our way!"

It _was_ Ralof with a number of other Stormcloak officers, running between us and the door. With him was Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Don't fight us, Hadvar – we're escaping and you can't stop us," Ralof cried out. "You should be doing the same, you fool."

Hadvar cried out in frustration and sheathed his sword, letting them pass. Swiftly, he grasped my hand and made for the keep. To our right now, the Stormcloaks disappeared through another door.

His fury at Ralof had muted me. I cast the soldier furtive glances as I did my best to keep up with him.

Even when we reached the door and Hadvar bundled us inside, there was a trace of anger on his face.

" _Hin sil fen nahkip bahloki_ ," the dragon's rasping voice cut through the destruction.

I shuddered and stopped in the dark, quiet entry chamber – a stark contrast to what was occurring outdoors. Hadvar snapped the door closed behind us.

I closed my eyes and leant against the cool stones as the cacophony of sounds faded, until all that remained was the frantic beat of my own heart in my ears, and my laboured breaths, burning from exertion.

 _Your soul will feed my hunger_ , the dragon had said. The words had made me somehow feel trapped in my own skin.

Pressing my palms firmly against the wall to ground myself, I called upon my lessons bring control my breaths, as though I was preparing to sing.

 _My lute is gone._

I took another deep breath, exasperated as tears welled in the corners of my squeezed-shut eyes. _It is gone but you are alive. Be grateful._

The sound of Hadvar's boots shuffling on the flagstones before me encouraged me to look up.

He was visibly grim and his sword was drawn. I glanced at it, and hurriedly glanced up to meet his eyes as my own widened in terror.

He wouldn't have brought me here to carry out the Legion's orders to kill me - _would he_?

 _Snick._

The pressure on my wrists let go and I gasped in relief, sagging forward. I stared at my freed hands and scratched lightly at the red, swollen skin, avoiding the purpled bruises.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"Let me see?"

Hadvar offered me his hand. Haltingly, I extended one toward him, rife with wariness in the wake of the anger he had shown Ralof. The two must have known one another, before the war.

 _Sons and daughters of Skyrim, pit against one another_ , I thought in dismay. I watched him as he inspected my wrist, and my wariness abated. Of course it was hard for them.

He was gentler than I had expected a soldier to be, prodding and testing gingerly. I took this opportunity to really _look_ at him. Now that death wasn't imminent, be it by the headsman's axe or a dragon's flames, I noticed more than the kind, steel-grey eyes. His hair was dark red, typical of midland Nords, and his frame carried that muscled strength that many of his kinsmen did. I placed him between my age and thirty – it was difficult to tell.

"Nothing broken. There should be healing potions around here somewhere," Hadvar released me, turning away. "You'll need to get out of Ulfric's colours if you want to make it out of _here_ alive, too."

He cast a furtive glance back over his shoulder. The rage that had consumed him earlier was gone. "Come on, Celeste. We're safe for the moment, but we've a way to go yet."

As if to make his point for him, the walls of the keep shuddered. I could hear the dragon outside, screeching furiously, though through the thick walls of the keep, it sounded as though it was much further away.

I hastened into the room to meet him, and he pointed toward some tables and shelves by a far wall. "Try over there. Take your fill, and grab a couple for our journey while you're at it. I'll find you some armour."

"All right," I agreed uneasily.

 _Journey?_

We separated and I shifted to the cupboards, throwing open doors and yanking open draws quickly as I hunted for the tell-tale little red bottles. There were books and papers, quills and ink wells aplenty – and a strange cupboard that contained nothing but a single cabbage. Finally I found the alchemy cabinet, though its stores were already far depleted. There were three little red bottles – all of them empty. The other was green; used to increase one's stamina in the heat of battle, not heal it of its wounds.

I took the green and sighed, turning back to the room. Hadvar was approaching with an armload of red material and leather.

He deposited it on the table before me. "Is that all there is?" he nodded at the potion.

"Unfortunately yes," I handed it over to him. "And you deserve this more than I do."

Hadvar huffed humourlessly, taking the bottle and unstoppering it. "I don't think today has anything to do with what people _deserve_."

There was that anger again, though admittedly only a trace. He took a sip and swallowed with a distasteful wince.

"You have the rest," he handed it back with a shrug. "It's better than nothing."

"Thanks," I let the tart, gooey liquid slide down my throat, wishing that there was a skin of water nearby.

"Perhaps we save the rest," with a grimace, I stoppered the bottle and placed it idly next to the armour Hadvar had retrieved.

The walls shuddered again. Hadvar and I startled in unison and then froze, glancing to the roof. Tiny stones from above, pieces of old mortar, rattled loose, clattered down around us. As the shaking ceased, our eyes met, and his fear was plain.

"Get changed," he turned from me. I assumed it was for privacy, but the gesture also made it clear that there was no time to question him. We had to get out of here.

Not that I planned to argue. I raked my dress up and over my head, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor, then grasped the burgundy under-tunic of a Legion officer, shirking into it. It was too large; the sleeves reached my elbows and the hemline, my knees, but nobody fleeing Helgen would worry about a thing like that.

I glanced over the rest of the items he had brought, not sure where to begin. Chewing my bottom lip uncertainly, I glanced at Hadvar, and determined that now was not the time to be shy.

"Can you help me?" I asked. "I don't know what goes where..." I admitted. A flush crept along my cheeks as he turned back to me.

"What do you mean?" he seemed confused, then he raked over my appearance. "Oh."

Understanding, he returned to the table and passed me a handful of leather strips. "Kilt first," he explained.

Oh - it was kind of like a skirt. As I hurried into it he picked up two pieces of leather strapped together by thinner strips down its sides.

"Cuirass next," he laid it over the back of a chair, then picked up several smaller pieces. "Arm guards. Helmet," he indicated. "Oh, and these things," his tone shifted subtly; loftier than before. "They're called 'boots'," he motioned toward the stiff-looking leather footwear. "They go on your feet."

I barely swallowed a laugh of incredulity. "Not my ears?" I feigned innocence.

"They'd never fit," he continued, then shook his head critically at my attempt at the cuirass. Ducking beside me, he eased my hands aside, and took over.

I watched him as he worked, and again, wondered why he was helping me?

His eyes were trained, focussed, and his hands worked swiftly, pulling and tightening the strips to close the cuirass around me.

He could have fled Helgen and been half way to somewhere not being destroyed by a dragon by now, if not for me. I was an incredible hinderance to him. Yet, here he was.

He had spoken of further questioning before, to the Legate. Perhaps this was his intention; to march me home to Solitude, to answer the Legion's questions.

I had to know. "Why are you helping me?" I voiced cautiously.

He glanced up, though his hands continued tightening of their own accord. There was no falseness to his brief look, then he frowned and glanced down again.

"Can you use a sword, or an axe?"

An unexpected reply. I crossed my brows and shook my head.

"A bow?" he patted my sides deftly, then stepped back.

"No," I frowned. I didn't see his point.

"Can you use magic to fight or to heal others?" he continued, lifting his eyes to mine and passing the arm bracers.

I took them hurriedly. "I'm a bard, not a mage."

"And that, Celeste, is why I'm helping you," Hadvar passed me the boots next.

I lifted them to my ears and raised my eyebrows earnestly.

He grinned and swatted at me. "Come on," there was laughter in his tone. "We really need to leave."

I smiled as I sat to put them on. "I don't understand; you're helping me because I _can't_ help you?"

"Well – I suppose, yes. It's my duty as a soldier of the Empire to protect those who cannot fight for themselves," he explained logically, indicating me with a hand. "It was plain to everybody that there was more to your story. It made me sick that the Legate wouldn't let you tell it."

Swallowing down a wince, I rose. Hadvar leaned over with the helmet, sticking it over my head and patting it secure. "There. One of us, as it should be. Now you at least won't be questioned on our way out of here."

His simple, easy acceptance baffled me given the layers of doubt I had experienced from every other soldier, both Legion and Stormcloak.

While I had more questions, now was not the time. If I trusted Hadvar to get us out, I might have a chance to ask them later. "I'm ready."

He offered me his hand. "Stay close," he murmured. "Let me do the talking."

I accepted his hand as he unsheathed his sword with the other.

Then we were off with Hadvar in the lead again, guiding me deeper into the keep.


	6. Kindness

_Chapter 6: Kindness_

Hadvar and I crept through Helgen Keep, sticking to the shadows. During encounters that were impossible to avoid, Hadvar did all the talking. If they were Legion, they let us pass. If they were Stormcloaks - while he tried the same tactic of reason in the wake of the common, fiery foe on the surface - they would usually engage, and Hadvar would dispatch them.

With everyone so rattled by what was happening, nobody took any particular interest in me.

I remained close to Hadvar while we walked, and at his insistence, I hid when he fought. He was my way out, so I followed his instructions without question. I had no idea what would happen if we made it out of Helgen – whether the accusations made by the Legate would stick, marking me as a fugitive. But we had to escape Helgen and the dragon first, and _then_ I could concern myself with the future.

And Hadvar was doing everything in his power to ensure that we would _have_ a future. Speaking to the measured and clearly intelligent man in whispers, and then watching on as he drew his sword and charged fearlessly into an oncoming group of enemies left me a little in awe of him. He was so skilled and _useful_ , whereas I was so incredibly small and pointless. At every moment, my debt toward him increased.

So along with the fear, confusion, anger, and underneath it, simmering grief, biding its time, I felt embarrassed and guilty.

I began searching the rooms we passed through for anything that might be of use to us; determined to make myself less of a hinderance. I found a few potions tucked away in the pockets or satchels of fallen soldiers, too. I pocketed these hastily and averted my eyes, swallowing the dizzying nausea burning up my throat at the sight of the bleeding bodies and permanently twisted expressions. Thankfully they had been so recently cut down that they didn't smell.

I found a small backpack in the _torture_ chamber, while Hadvar talked our way through the grizzly place, which made my task of collecting things a little easier. There was a spell book in it, which I kept for the money it might be worth. During our escape, I had realised that my funds were in my pack on the surface, with my lute and journals and sheet music, and the dragon. They were very likely burned or buried under rubble - or both - by now. I would need to find or earn some coin to tide me over until I could access my account from one of the larger townships, and the abandonned spell book would help.

After disposing of another two twitchy Stormcloaks who had refused to let us pass without a fight, Hadvar ran back to my hiding spot, panting from exertion and flicking blood from his sword.

"They won't just let us go, will they?" he asked in frustration, shaking his head in despair. "Did they miss the dragon attack? _It_ didn't care what colours we wore."

I frowned and passed him a health potion. I'd been holding it ready while I worried over the sounds of steel meeting steel, and told myself over and over that he _would_ be back. "I'm sorry," was all I could come up with.

He crossed his brows as he downed the potion and swallowed with a wince. His stormy-grey eyes were fixed on me in confusion, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry?" he echoed.

I nodded, reaching for the empty bottle. "Do you need another?" I asked. "Or maybe," I rifled through the bag and found an apple. "Something more appetising?"

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he shook his head and motioned for us to proceed.

"What do you mean, you're sorry?" Hadvar asked in the low rumble he'd reserved for our moments of peace between encounters.

I sighed, belatedly realising how self-centred I was being. Another thing to be sorry for.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered. Conversing would only hinder us further, and alert any nearby to our presence.

Hadvar accepted this and silence fell between us. My uneasiness remained, but there was nothing I could do about it for now. All Hadvar's efforts were on getting us out of Helgen unseen; so should mine be.

We passed through a few empty rooms, all with furniture disarrayed and cupboards thrown wide open; clear signs of a recent ransacking. Next we reached what looked like a natural cavern through an opening along one of the straight brick walls. Hadvar glanced through the entryway first, then leapt back, holding his arm up for me to stop. When our eyes met, he put a finger to his lips.

I listened and heard nothing, but did as he bade; the questions on my tongue unasked.

He leaned down, lifting a hand to my ear. "Bear," he whispered.

My breath caught in my throat and I glanced to him fearfully; my eyes widening.

He motioned for me to lean back in, then his hand was back, sheltering my ear again. "I have a bow, but I'm...not the best shot. If I miss, we'll have to run – _fast_."

Hadvar's uncertain tone and the way his breaths shuddered over my neck spoke volumes; he didn't want to take on a bear. It was no wonder, given how he'd been exerting himself during our escape, and Stormcloaks didn't have long, razor-sharp claws and teeth.

I shook my head and retreated, and found tiredness in his grey depths. My guilt swelled; _I_ was to blame for his exhaustion.

Standing on my toes and leaning up to him; "Can't we go around it?" I whispered. "It doesn't need to know we were here."

Hadvar nodded slightly as I retreated, but his mouth set into a grim line.

"We can try," he didn't seem that confident. I felt he was leaving much unsaid, but we discussed it no longer. I took his hand wordlessly, as he unsheathed his sword with the other.

Hadvar pressed his back to the stone wall, squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep, steadying breath. It seemed to compose him, and when he opened his eyes he shook his head in disbelief, then flashed me a half-smile. His raised eyebrows asked a question; _Ready_?

I nodded. Together, our boots shuffled along the last few flagstones, and then dulled as they met the earthen, silty path within the cave.

My heart thumped in my chest. I was painfully aware that I was breathing too loudly, and repressed every urge to hold my breath, for it would only make me gasp when I let it go. My eyes felt strained as I peered through the dimness and tried to locate the bear - and was alerted to its position by a grunting sound.

Hadvar and I froze. I found myself unconsciously squeezing his hand as, backs flattened firmly to the wall and eyes wide, we waited. The enormous mass of fur and muscle a mere three paces from us trembled as it shifted, then settled and fell silent again.

The minutes ticked by, and I waited for the lump of darkness amongst the shadows to rise and lope toward us. Sweat trickled down my neck, and I bit my tongue to distract myself as the desperate need to itch it arose.

Eventually, Hadvar tentatively continued shuffling along the wall, and, still holding his hand and too frightened to let it go, I had to move with him.

My eyes were glued to the bear, but briefly, I glanced ahead. A curve to the wall – we would be out of the bear's line of sight by then. That was our goal. We could do this.

An unexpected sound caught my attention – the sound of voices, coming from within the keep.

My head whipped about in horror. Orange flickered from within the keep; an approaching torchlight. In the corner of my eye, both Hadvar, and the bear, noticed it as well.

Hadvar was then like a statue beside me, but the bear didn't listen for long, lumbering up onto all four paws and sniffing the air.

When the huge, dark-furred beast began to move toward the keep, Hadvar let go of my hand and stepped out of sight. I was too afraid to turn, but I heard wood whisper against leather behind me. After an agonising moment where I wondered if he had left me, he was back, inching in front of me; bow drawn and arrow aimed on the creature ambling toward the approaching survivors.

Of _course_ he would want to help them, but I caught his elbow with urgency. When he glanced to me, his look was focussed and determined.

My eyes were wide as I shook my head desperately. If he shot the bear, it would turn on _us_ , of that I was _certain_.

I saw no judgement in his eyes, and he tilted his head, almost imperceptibly before his gaze left mine. He shuffled forward another step and retrained his aim.

 _Why did you try to stop him? Coward._ Pressing both of my hands to the cavern wall to let him pass, my throat clenched in terror.

Okay, he was really doing this. Which meant I had to be ready to run.

 _Outrun a bear?_

It was entirely absurd and exasperating that, after overcoming so many obstacles, we were going to be killed by a _bear_!

 _Stop it_ , I commanded. _You've nearly died for a full day now, yet against the odds you are still alive. Focus._

I made myself look beyond my own nose again. Figures appeared in the entry to the cavern, and the one holding the torch held it a little higher as they peered within.

The bear rose onto its hind legs and roared in warning; its frustration echoing around the small chamber and ringing in my ears as it crashed back onto its front paws and ran toward the soldiers. The newcomers leapt back and one of them cursed loudly.

The bear had taken no more than one bounding step when Hadvar's arrow struck. It cried out in fury and turned, clawing at the arrow in its hind quarter with its front paw.

The two soldiers charged into the cavern with their swords drawn and met the bear head-on. The torched was waved before it frantically, but the great beast seemed to be _attracted_ by the fire, and turned to face the man with an angry snarl.

Hadvar let another arrow fly as the bear swiped at the torch-wielding soldier. In the swirling flash of firelight, I caught their allegiance; they were wearing Imperial red.

When Hadvar's second arrow struck the bear between its shoulder blades, it turned swiftly and scanned the area. It was clearly confused, and I was grateful for the torchlight, for it must have made it difficult for it to spot Hadvar and I in the shadows.

The sword-wielding soldiers leapt at the creature, slashing and cutting through fur and flesh. It screamed in rage and rose to its hind legs, batting at the attackers despite the spray of blood that followed its exertions.

Both muted and stilled by the sight of such savagery, I could only watch and tremble as the bear swatted the two Legionnaires away; its sharp claws cutting through the leather armour of one as though it was made of butter. He crashed onto the wall with a sickening _crunch,_ and didn't rise again.

Hadvar shot a third arrow, striking the bear's leg, but it didn't seem to notice. It seemed to have gone beyond the perception of pain, driven by frenzy.

Staggering to his feet, the remaining soldier caught sight of his fallen comrade. His eyes widened in horror and he dropped the torch, glanced up to the bear, and after a beat where he clearly weighed his options, he turned and darted back into the keep.

Gratefully, the bear's full attention was on him. It crashed down onto its front paws and ran after the soldier, oblivious to the arrows sticking out of it.

"Let's go."

Hadvar grabbed my hand and with a lurch I stumbled into a run, finding my feet under his momentum before I could crash to the ground and take him down with me.

We flew from the scene as the sounds of the furious bear fell away, but even when its rage-filled cries could no longer be heard, we flew as though our lives depended upon it - well, because they _did_.

Adrenaline surged through my veins and my heartbeat hammered in my ears, countering the beat of our boots against the well-worn rocky surface. The further we fled, the dimmer the path became. Eventually the only light being emitted was from clusters of mushrooms; their eerie blue glow blurring as we raced past them.

Soon, it grew a little lighter, and a welcome coolness brushed my skin, all the colder for the heat of my flushed cheeks. It was the _breeze_ ; we were nearly there!

Hadvar must have known we were coming upon the exit but our pace never faltered. We rounded a bend in the cave, and relief filled me; there was a hole in the cave wall, through which I could see _trees_ and _sky_. Outside.

The fresh air smelled sweet and carried a pleasant, invigorating chill that seeped into my skin, allowing me to celebrate, for a moment, that I had actually lived through all the chaos. I breathed in deeply with delight, glancing about as we exited the cave at a run. The land was mountainous and the woods nearest to us were sparse, but there were clusters of denser, taller trees close by. Long, thick grass carpeted the ground, rippling in the breeze and split by a dirt path, barely a goat track, leading away from the cavern. It was overgrown enough to indicate that the way was rarely used. Perhaps that was why the bear had decided to take up residence in the cavern.

Hadvar stopped only when we reached a cluster of boulders. He let go of me, reaching out to steady himself against one of the rocks as he gasped and coughed; pressing his forehead against the stone surface as his eyes squeezed shut.

I watched him, catching my breath for myself, but not for long. A pair of butterflies fluttered by; one orange, one blue, spiralling as they danced over thick clumps of red and purple mountain flowers around a long-fallen, hollowed log, overgrown with verdant ivies and orange mushrooms.

My eyes followed the butterflies as they ascended, along the length of a tall tree trunk, and then, I saw the sky. Infinite blue, with barely a cloud in sight. A bird trilled a tuneful melody, and there was a flash of white feathers in amongst the leaves.

I wanted to laugh and cry. It was so beautiful, so tranquil; so _different_ , as though I was seeing Skyrim with eyes newly opened.

An otherworldly keening from above ripped through the calm, and a shadow loomed over us.

I leapt toward Hadvar and he reached for me. We steadied each other, ducking down as our eyes flew to the skies, searching fearfully.

 _The dragon._

The black form was now flying high above us. It mustn't have seen us, or cared about us if it had, for it continued up and away toward the mountains.

As its shape grew less distinct, Hadvar shifted, releasing me and rising slowly. His eyes were trained on the dragon in the distance.

"If its making a home of this Hold, what happened to Helgen might happen to Riverwood next," he murmured darkly.

I stepped out from the rock to watch the black speck on the horizon as it whizzed about. Where had it come from? Why had it attacked now? _Why had I understood what it had said in Helgen?_

I shook my head - I had clearly imagined the latter. "Surely the Jarl of Whiterun will send soldiers to protect the village?"

Hadvar nodded, more resolved than before; "Yes but first, I'll go and warn them. Riverwood isn't far," he glanced toward me; seemed to falter, then resumed softly. "The Jarl will take time to petition and more to send his people, if he agrees to. He may have his hands full in town, and he will expect the Legion's assistance..." Hadvar glanced beyond me to the cavern exit, frowning.

I glanced with him. All was still, but for the breeze catching the flowers at its borders. There was nobody else; no signs of survivors. With a pang, I glanced back to Hadvar. He had probably lost a lot of friends today, but I couldn't find words that would adequately express how sorry I was. I settled for resting my hand on his arm in apology.

Birdsong filtered to us through the leaves, and Hadvar answered it with a sigh. Turning to me, he seemed to collect himself; setting his shoulders, and levelling his expression.

"Where are you bound?" he asked as he nodded to the track, motioning for us to go. "Home? Back to Solitude, I mean?"

We fell into step beside one another, and I glanced to my feet as I adjusted my pack and huffed; "No. _Definitely_ not."

Hadvar's eyes were on me, questioning, but I kept my own trained on our path. "Maybe I'll try make for Cyrodiil again, in a day or two," I mused in afterthought.

When Hadvar responded, he seemed uneasy. "Don't you think that's a little dangerous, considering that the Stormcloaks and Legion both believe you're a spy for the other side?"

"Oh," my eyes widened. That's right, I was leaving thinking about _that_ until we had escaped Helgen. Hadvar was right; both sides certainly had other priorities, but until my name was cleared, I might be on their watch lists. Perhaps it would be better if I kept away from the border regions.

Hadvar broke our silence eventually. "You know...I'm bound for Solitude. For reassignment, I mean, at Castle Dour. I could...vouch for you, if you want? Clear your name with the Legion, so its safe for you to go home, when you want to go back."

I glanced to him swiftly; he would do that for me? "What...would you tell them?" I faltered.

Hadvar smiled secretively as we stepped onto the main road. "That your name was not on my list."

A laugh bubbled out of me and I ducked my head, grinning at the road. Oh, the Empire and their lists.

"And then, I'd tell them the truth," he added openly. "I find that's generally the best thing to do."

"Hmm," I continued smiling, warmed by his optimism. The truth had won me no favours when I had attempted to tell it; I'd been branded traitor by both armies, sentenced to torture to death by the Stormcloaks, and execution by the Imperials. But of course, the word of an Imperial Legion soldier would weigh more than a frightened Thane's daughter found under suspicious circumstances.

The road angled down through the wooded area between Helgen and Riverwood and either side of the road was thick with wildlife; all flowers and shrubs and butterflies. Breathing in the blissfully fresh air, I reminded myself how lucky I was. I was free. I owed Hadvar my life, regardless of whether I had been wrongfully accused. And - he had offered to help me again, to clear my name.

We may have been free of Helgen, but it seemed that I would still need Hadvar to work my way out of this mess.

"Thank you," I said with sincerity. "And, I'm so sorry. For all of this," I added regretfully.

"There's that 'sorry' again," he teased. "Will you tell me why you are sorry this time?"

I flashed him a sideways look. "I would have thought it was obvious," I shrugged. " I wish I wasn't such a burden. Wish I could fight," I kicked at a pebble in my path.

Hadvar waved a hand as though it was nothing. "Skyrim needs more people who don't," he murmured dryly. "Anyone can swing a sword, but to be a bard takes skill and talent. Bards do important work," he cast me a half-smile. "They keep our history alive, to try keep us from making the same mistakes over again. Were you training at the Bard's college?"

I nodded, glancing to him in wonder. Was he just trying to make me feel better about my lack of properly useful skills, or did he truly believe as he said?

"For three years, now, yes." I did not wish to talk about the life I had left behind, but I would answer anything Hadvar asked of me; the truth was really the least I could give him.

"Oh, that's funny," Hadvar's cheerfulness widened his smile. "Same length of time I've been with the Legion."

"Oh," I echoed, smiling idly in response. Just...how old was he again? "What did you do before you were a soldier?" I tested.

He shrugged. His hair brushed against his jaw as he looked up to the road beyond, and I noticed it was a little lighter, and a little redder, than I had first thought it was. Or perhaps it was just a trick of the sunlight.

His manner was casual, but his eyes were ever-watchful. "Not much, I suppose. Helped my uncle around his forge. Helped my cousin with her studies, teaching her to read and write. Fished a bit, mined a bit, made a general nuisance of myself, according to my aunt," he added with a hint of amused irony.

I waited for more; intrigued by this dual nature. He seemed to be much more than a typical Nord soldier. I prompted quietly when he didn't continue on his own. "Why did you join the Legion?"

Hadvar let out a heavy breath. "Because it was the right thing to do. My parents were in the Legion," he faltered.

I caught little grief in his manner; either he had not spent much time with them, or they had passed so long ago that he no longer felt their loss as keenly as I did mine.

"But they...they're gone, of course," he added, biting his bottom lip as he shook his head.

"I'll be honest," Hadvar started again. "I joined the Legion for the living. For those still in Riverwood. I love my family, and I want to protect them."

I nodded - it was as noble a reason as I could have expected from him - but I felt myself tensing up the longer he spoke. My breaths felt heavier, and I resolutely pushed back the urge to cry.

This was what I would be like, some day; glossing over my parent's deaths as though it were a terrible shame, then moving on to the next topic of discussion. Only, there was no family left for me - apart from my sister, who didn't need, or want, my love.

He must have seen the change in me.

"Oh, Gods. Sorry," I heard the wince under his words. "I wasn't thinking-"

"It's okay," I cut in quickly. I tried to shake the feeling off, but there was nothing to replace it with.

Hadvar said nothing, but frowned.

I huffed and conceded, "Well, no. It's not okay. I'm not sure that what happened to them will ever be okay," I murmured.

"I know," he said simply. "Sorry."

"Thanks."

Silence fell again. Our boots crunched on the gravel trail leading us through the sloping woods, and the occasional trill from above was the only comment on our descent.

"What's Riverwood like?" I asked conversationally, annoyed with myself for making the air awkward.

Hadvar smiled and a certain fondness settled over his features.

I found myself smiling too, but felt idly bemused that his manner was so compelling. Some people were like that, I supposed; sharing joy, instead of keeping it all for themselves.

"Let's see," he weighed his words with a taunting lilt. "There's the river, and there's the woods-"

"You don't say?"

He grinned. "It's nice. We're not far, if you want to rest there, get to know it for yourself. My aunt and uncle have room, or there's the Inn. It's very safe," he added quickly. "Well," he rethought hurriedly, "apart from the threat of war and dragon attack, but I expect most of Skyrim will be on alert in regards to the latter, in a day or so."

"Dragon attack," I echoed, shaking my head in wonder and ignoring _my_ immediate future plans while I could. "Where do you think it came from?"

Hadvar shrugged. "Who knows? First in a thousand years. The Stormcloaks will probably claim it for their cause and say Jarl Ulfric summoned it," he added with a roll of his eyes. He motioned toward a gap between the trees. "Look – see up there, on the mountaintop? That's Bleak Falls Barrow. We're close now."

I looked up, my mind reeling at the possibility that Ulfric _had_ summoned the dragon, somehow, to save him from the executioner's axe. It was too ridiculous; too improbable; too _fearsome_ an idea to entertain for long around Hadvar's infectious good spirits.

I squinted, attempting to make out forms along the craggy ridge in the distance. Yes, there was a ruin up there; some of the grey stone was more deliberate and uniform than the rest of the boulders and snow.

"Which means," he continued, falling into a jog as we rounded another bend. "There – see the Guardian stones? We're nearly there."

This I was more curious about; I glanced away from the far mountain and back to our path. "I've only heard about those. Apparently there's one high in the mountains, west of Solitude. One of the Deans at the College talked about pilgrimages to them, as sources of inspiration."

Hadvar nodded, breaking into another jog and making for the three tall, smooth standing stones on the edge of the bluff.

My muscles burned and protested, but I fell into step beside him.

"Sure, a journey to visit all of them would spawn a bard's tale or two. They're all over Skyrim, but for some reason, there are three together here, just outside of Riverwood," he slowed to a stop and rested his palm on one. "This is the Warrior. I wasn't born under it, but I always stop by it on my way home. Calms me down, and gives me strength."

He drifted off until a mild reverence hung between him and the stone, and his expression shifted in the brief silence that followed. The knots in his features smoothed out and he grew more serene while his eyes flit over the etched constellation.

Then he glanced down, smiling warmly as though laughing at himself. "Of course, it might all be in my head. But whatever gets us through, right?"

Whether it was in his head or not, he _did_ seem changed. "May I try?" I took a step toward him.

"Of course," his fingertips drifted off the ancient stone surface as he made room for me on the platform.

My eyes flickered between the signs decorating them as I took his place. As well as the Warrior, there was the Mage and the Thief.

I frowned at the Mage stone. Giselle and I had been born under the Mage, but I had never felt any particular affinity for magic, while she obviously had. I turned from it, glancing at the other two stones; but I was no more a Thief or Warrior than I was a Mage.

"Why isn't there a Bard sign?" I turned to Hadvar, throwing the soldier an apologetic smile.

"Well," Hadvar considered, then nodded toward my birth sign. "Music is a type of magic, when made by the right person. Why don't you give the Mage a try?"

"I suppose," I murmured, facing the stone and pressing my fingertips to the etching. And besides; if I wanted to learn about thu'ums, I would need all the help I could get. Perhaps it was time to embrace the sign, as foolish as I felt to consider myself anything close to a mage.

I took a deep, slow breath as I focussed on the depiction of the wizened old man in a flowing cape holding a staff. A subtle warmth, like a ripple of laughter, swelled within me. I smiled at the image, imagining my serious sister with her stern eyes and straight, dark hair, wearing the ridiculous robes – and beard – of the depiction.

Unable to suppress a smile at the silly image, I turned back to Hadvar. "You're right, I do feel better."

"Good. I knew you'd feel it too," he smiled. The smile reached his eyes and my chest fluttered unexpectedly. How had I failed to notice how _nice_ he looked when he smiled?

He glanced to the road, clearing his throat. "Come on. We're nearly there."

I replied to his nod with my own and jogged down to meet him. There was no denying it; something had made me feel better - lighter, more positive, and ready to overcome the obstacles before me. Was this the power of the Mage stone, or all in my head?

We continued our winding descent. A clear, turquoise river flowed to our left, and when the afternoon sun dipped behind the highest mountains to the west, their shadows fell over the valley, creating an early evening. Torchbugs and luna moths flit out from behind trees and rocks, dancing with the confused butterflies.

The longing ache the sights created, after the tumultuous and lonely past few weeks, overwhelmed me. Unable to stop myself, I knelt by a cluster of vivid, blue mountain flowers, and leant down to inhale their sweet, sugary scent.

"Hadvar, this valley is enchanting," I hushed, sitting up and brushing my hand over the tops of the soft blooms.

"It's home. I'm pleased to see it inspires you," the soldier's chuckle was all joy, and I heard him come to a stop behind me. "Perhaps you'll write a ballad about Riverwood, some day."

"I could never do it justice," I smiled as I glanced over my shoulder to him. For the first time in weeks, the thought of making music again didn't send me into a panic.

The stormy grey glanced over me; a little more faraway than before. He offered his hand with a small half-smile. "I'm sure that's far from true."

His words were comradely enough, but the softness to his tone made me blush.

I let him help me up - telling myself that really, it would be rude to refuse him. My chest fluttered with a surprising _yearning_ as I stood and faced him, and our eyes met fleetingly. It would not be so bad to call this place home, living here with this man who had shown me such...open trust, and willing kindness.

Hadvar led us back onto the road, and our hands drifted apart.

My mind caught up to my thoughts, muting me as they warred with one another. What was I thinking? I barely knew Hadvar – I didn't even know his family name. Skyrim was at war, there was a dragon on the loose, and I had sworn an oath to avenge my parent's deaths. Hadvar was helping me because he believed it was his duty to do so - and it was a duty that would take him away to Solitude, where I could not bare to be, in the wake of Helgen's destruction. I had not even known him for a day, and would likely be in his acquaintance for the same again.

"I'm an idiot," I sighed as I shoved the kindling spark away.

"An idiot?"

I bit back my curse; I had said that aloud? I met his confused look and feigned amusement while my heart thumped accusingly, trying to hammer straight out of my chest.

"Yes. What must you think of me?" I spun, for I could not bare to voice what I _had_ been thinking. "We flee a fiery death, escape the village being destroyed by a dragon, and _just_ manage to avoid death by ravenous bear, and I start rolling in the flowers like a silly fox cub."

Hadvar laughed; an honest, easygoing sound that made me flush at my cowardice as we approached the entry gate to Riverwood.

"I don't think there'll be any trouble, but let me do the talking," he said in a lowered, but still mirthful tone. "Probably best if you refrain from rolling in any more flower beds, too, little fox," he added teasingly. "I don't know how I'd explain that to the guards."

 _Little fox?_

I glanced away, smiling at the river as I reigned back my embarrassed, childish giggle. The clear, blue water gushed around smoothed river rocks, churning into white foam on the edges, but barely took it in as I berated myself for falling into such a familiar, comfortable manner with this soldier I barely knew. True, he had spoken for me when no one else would, saved my life, several times, and was bringing me to his family. _And_ , he had offered to clear my name, when he returned to Solitude.

But I felt that _I_ was in the wrong. I was using him, stumbling along in his wake, taking whatever he offered because nobody else would help me. And - _what_ had just happened between us? What had made him look so distant, and my heart leap and flutter?

 _You are ridiculous, Celeste. These are not feelings. You have known him under strained circumstances for a matter of hours._

Thoughts of Ataf and his wounded expressions were fresh in my mind, despite all that had passed since that uncomfortable evening. I had promised to never use anyone again as poorly as I had used my friend.

 _Then what - stop accepting Hadvar's help?_ _See how long you last on your own._

I shook my head at myself, frustrated. No, after all we had experienced together, that would only offend him. And, I couldn't let what had passed between Ataf and I cloud my judgement so. It was _very_ plain that I needed help, and Hadvar was willingly giving it.

 _Then be kind and honest to him in turn_ , I resolved. _Is it really so difficult? Just - be kind._

Hadvar was telling me about the buildings nearest us as we passed under the entry gate and stepped into Riverwood, and I turned my attention back to him with a warm smile.


	7. Family

_Chapter 7: Family_

From within the false evening created by the shadows of the mountains looming either side of the valley, Riverwood felt eerily peaceful. Mist gathered around the river banks, muting and blurring the colours and lines of the small village as though it was a mirage, or dream. White smoke curled up lazily from the chimneys of the wood and thatch cottages, and drystone walls ran alongside the road, marked by patches of thick, silver-lined green ivy.

The road was hard-packed dirt, and whoever was in charge of maintaining it had not considered its repair to be a priority. As Hadvar and I moved along and avoided the potholes, the strong, steady beat of a hammer against an anvil rang out tunefully, keeping time for a night about to fall.

"That's home," Hadvar pointed to a house beside the road, in the same direction the melodious timekeeper was coming from. The orange glow of a forge silhouetted a wooden rail through the mists, and the house ran alongside the churning river on its far side.

"Over there's the lumber yard," he motioned toward a small bridge leading to an island, on which the other structure was built. As we continued to walk, the buildings became more substantial, and I could make out a water wheel turning slowly; the source of the gushing, churning noise that I had thought the river was creating on its own.

"That's old Hilde's house," Hadvar indicated a house to our right with a wide, sprawling verandah overlooking the main street. "Her son is the village bard," the soldier's eyes turned on me with interest. "He was a graduate of your college, years ago now. Maybe you know of him?"

"Perhaps," I murmured, biting my bottom lip as I stared at the house. I wasn't certain who I should interact with, until my name had been cleared with the Empire.

The hammer against steel sound stopped as we drew closer to Hadvar's home, and the hiss of water boiling instantly replaced it. Hadvar bounded up the stairs without hesitation, and I dogged his every step. Once the steam had cleared, I saw Hadvar's uncle sitting sideways on an upturned log by a bucket of water, with his anvil positioned in front of him.

Like all blacksmiths, he was huge – that is, well-muscled, with arms like tree-trunks. His scraggly blonde hair, beard and face were covered in sweat and dusted with ash. A worn leather apron around his waist was brimming with smaller tools of his trade – hammers, punches and an array of objects that I didn't recognise, which looked more like torture implements than blacksmithing equipment.

My heart beat quickened as I drew closer. What was Hadvar going to tell his family about me?

When the clop of our boots on the floorboards reached him, the smith turned, adopting the open, well-worn expression of a shopkeeper keen to make a sale.

The similarities between him and his nephew were plain. Though they were a hazel colour, his eyes and brows were the same shape as Hadvar's.

"Uncle Alvor," Hadvar greeted in a warm undertone that overflowed with relief.

The steel Hadvar's uncle had been working on sloshed in the bucket of cooling water, forgotten. I recognised another trait the men shared; Alvor's face lifted when he beamed a smile at Hadvar that made my heart clench with warmth. The sight of the familiar tilt, despite it being familiar for only a handful of hours, relaxed me immensely.

"Hadvar!" he bellowed, idly putting his hammer in a pocket. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and his subtle Nord accent gave his words a pleasing, melodious lilt, just like Hadvar's accent. "This is a pleasant surprise!"

"Oh - you had better keep your voice down -" Hadvar cast a concerned glance over his shoulder.

Alvor strode to his nephew, his arms outstretched. Hadvar's plea for calm fell on deaf ears.

"Are you on leave?" he boomed. "Dorthe will be-"

He faltered; glancing up and down, taking in the state of his nephew. At once, the man's manner shifted to one of concern.

I couldn't blame him; as well as the obvious exhaustion, Hadvar's armour was charred, and his skin was flecked in places with dirt, soot and blood.

"Shor's bones, boy, you're dead on your feet. What has happened?"

"I'm fine," Hadvar dismissed in a hush, glancing to me. In the stormy-greyness, I could see restraint – warning – a reminder that I leave the talking to him. I acknowledged with a shallow nod, and he returned the gesture. "We're both fine, for now. Can we go inside?"

"Of course," Alvor agreed at once, motioning for us to walk before him. Hadvar turned and I followed across a thin, covered verandah running alongside the main building.

Alvor's eyes flit over me; part curious, part concerned as we passed by him.

I cast him an apologetic smile, feeling small and nervous again. If Hadvar intended on telling them the truth about me, not to mention what he had proposed during our walk into Riverwood – that I stay with his family while he cleared my name – I might be putting them at risk.

 _Be kind,_ I reminded myself. _Don't you dare use them._

Hadvar led the way, opening the door at the end of the verandah and wordlessly ushering me inside.

The house was small, but cosy. A hearth roared opposite the main door, beside which a girl of about ten years sat. She had mousy, shoulder-length hair and was peeling vegetables as she hummed quietly to herself.

The sound of the girl's little song stopped me in my tracks and my breath caught in my throat. I watched her through a blur of sudden, unexpected tears. She was humming _Kyne's Tears –_ a simpler version than we practised at the college, but the core, sweet melody was there, and somehow, physically painful.

Alvor must have closed the door behind us. The soft _click_ as it shut caught the girl's attention and she stopped humming. She looked up, wearing a small, contented smile, which fell a little when she observed me. She tilted her head in confusion.

"Hello," she said, almost in question. But then she saw who was behind me; her face brightened and she threw down her knife and potato, leaping to her feet.

"Hadvar!" she bounded to us, throwing her arms around his waist.

The soldier laughed quietly as he leaned forward, hugging her back. "Dorthe, what have they been feeding you? You'll be taller than me by next Hearthfire."

 _Hadvar's cousin,_ I reminded myself, unable to stop my smile. The urge to cry left as quickly as it had risen.

"Liar," Dorthe lifted her head, retaining her tight hold as she grinned up to him. "How long are you staying? Have you come from a big battle?"

"Did somebody say 'Hadvar'?" a voice called. Movement sounded from the direction of a staircase to the far side of the house.

"Trust me, you don't want to know about _this_ battle," Hadvar answered, arching an eyebrow. " _Far_ too scary for a little girl."

"Hey-!" she protested with a laugh, pushing herself off him.

"Hadvar," Alvor stepped past us. His brows were crossed in warning, perhaps for baiting Dorthe so. "Dorthe, can you take over from your mama downstairs?" he placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Hadvar needs to talk to us."

Dorthe obediently stepped back, but frowned. "No!" she cried out. "Please, let me stay!" she looked between the men and added quickly. "I'll be quiet, I promise!"

"It is you!" the woman who had called from downstairs had reached the upper level - this was Hadvar's aunt, I assumed. Her coppery hair was tied back from her slim face and she had an efficient air about her, despite the spots of flour on her cheek and forehead. She was dusting her hands on her apron, leaving white finger marks in her wake. "No notice, as usual," she murmured pointedly, but clearly in jest. "And I suppose you want to be fed," she smirked.

None of them had addressed my appearance directly, but truthfully, I was contented to remain unnoticed. My head spun; so much was going on at once it was difficult to keep track of the excited conversations.

"Hmm, Hadvar, what do you think? Can we trust Dorthe with your news?" Alvor asked in that considering tone parents reserved for their children, when they were about to give in to them.

"She had better stay," Hadvar placed a hand on my elbow, nodding toward the table when I glanced up to him in doubt. "The whole of Skyrim will know in a day or two. Best she hear the truth from us."

"Us?" Hadvar's aunt finally noticed me, and shook herself. "Oh – I'm sorry," her warm manner shifted from long-suffering cheerfulness to welcoming. "I didn't realise Hadvar – I'm Sigrid," she changed her mind and joined us, motioning toward the table. "You look tired – both of you -" she cast a concerned furrow her nephew's way. "Take a seat, I'll fix some tea, Miss...?" she glanced pointedly between us.

"Oh," I shook myself out of my stupor. "How rude of me - I'm Celeste Pas-"

"This is Celeste," Hadvar said at the same time in a rush. I hesitated, wondering if he was going to tell them my family name, and belatedly remembered that he had asked me to leave the talking to him. I hastened to accept the seat Sigrid was offering me, thanking her, and cast Hadvar an incredulous look. I couldn't just stand here dumbly while they asked me questions!

"She escaped Helgen with me. Saved my life, you could say," he smirked and sat, helping himself to a dumpling from a pile on a wooden board in the centre. I felt as though he was deliberately avoiding eye contact as he took a bite out of it.

 _Saved him?_

But his family's attention was on me. "I wouldn't call stumbling around Helgen after you _saving you_ , but tell it your way, Hadvar."

"Did you say - _escaped_ Helgen?" Alvor sat slowly, glancing at Hadvar with a frown. Dorthe appeared next to her father, shuffling on her seat as she looked expectantly between Hadvar and I with wide eyes. She extended her hand and took one of the dumplings swiftly from the centre before either of her parents noticed.

"Yes, _escaped_. You're not going to believe it," Hadvar swallowed, placing both of his hands on the table. His eyes widened, set on the wood grain as he let out a heavy breath. "Helgen was attacked a few hours ago by a...dragon."

He met his uncle's eyes at the word _dragon_ , and I watched them both closely. Alvor's expression was level; unreadable; perhaps a little annoyed if anything. Hadvar was motionless; serious. The air thickened between them.

"A _real_ _dragon_?!" Dorthe burst with a squeak.

Both men glanced to the girl, and both opened their mouths to reply.

"Hush," Sigrid cut in before either could as she reappeared at the head of the table with a teapot and tankards on a tray. She set them down with a hurried, somewhat annoyed _clang_. "Your cousin is teasing you," she flashed Hadvar a warning look as she began to pour the steaming liquid.

"You're not drunk, are you boy?" Alvor asked in a low voice, edged in disappointment.

"But mama, old Hilde said she saw a dragon, too," Dorthe insisted, giving her mother an imploring look.

"That's enough," Sigrid murmured quietly. "Let them explain," she passed me a tankard of tea, and her amber eyes were hard as they met mine.

I wanted to disappear into my seat; it was a weighty look that could sink a ship. After thanking her, I distracted myself, reaching for the small jug of milk in the middle of the table, sloshing a little into my tea.

"I'm sober," he promised his uncle in a quiet, steady voice.

Sigrid pressed a tankard into Hadvar's hand and then took a seat on the other side of her daughter. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her tankard that her knuckles were white.

"I know, it's...madness," Hadvar huffed, glancing to his tea, swirling it gently. "But it's also real. Helgen was attacked by a dragon. I'd take you to see the evidence for yourselves, if it wasn't too dangerous to go there at the moment."

"Is this _dragon_ still in Helgen?" Sigrid asked sharply.

I wasn't certain if she believed him, but who could blame her? I hardly believed what I had seen with my own eyes. Dragons were creatures of bygone eras, of legend; the antagonists of a handful of songs rarely requested in the taverns of Skyrim.

Hadvar shook his head, meeting his aunt's eyes regretfully. "No. It flew off over Bleak Falls Barrow an hour or two ago. Then we lost sight of it."

"It could be here at any moment!" Dorthe turned to her father, her tone brimming with awe.

Alvor's gaze was trained on Hadvar. "All right, Hadvar," he muttered slowly with a conceding nod. "You would not make something like this up. I believe you. What do we do?"

Hadvar exhaled heavily as his eyes flickered to me, full of relief. "Fortify the houses," he advised, "and petition the Jarl to send soldiers into the valley, to be on the look out and assist, should an attack come."

Alvor nodded, but Sigrid spoke up. "Won't the Legion provide support? Jarl Balgruuf has limited resources, particularly with the mounting Stormcloak rebellion."

Hadvar tilted his head uncertainly as his mouth quirked at one corner. "Ulfric Stormcloak is still on the loose – all our efforts are focussed on capturing him, to _stop_ civil war before it gets out of hand."

"But a _dragon_ , Hadvar-" she murmured, aghast.

"I know," Hadvar rubbed his brow, wincing as though he had a headache. Perhaps he did. "We _should_ be united in fighting it. But we won't be. It's not that simple, aunty," he shook his head. "And I can't speak for the entire Imperial Legion. I won't know what my orders are until I return to Solitude."

There was a dip in the conversation. Alvor and Sigrid exchanged a pointed glance, though their cause for concern seemed different to before. Dorthe cast a furtive look at her parents before opening her mouth then closing it quickly, before she could voice whatever was on her mind.

I took another sip of tea, turning my attention to my cup. It seemed bottomless in the dim, flickering light of the hearth and I frowned at the nut-brown liquid. I was intruding and had nothing of use to give them in return for their hospitality. Hadvar had mentioned a village inn. Once I had taken my leave of Hadvar's family, I could barter the spell book in my pack for a night's accommodation, and make for Whiterun in the morning. As the capital of the Hold, I would be able to arrange a line of credit and access to my account with one of the shopkeepers.

Alvor broke the silence; his tone lower and solicitous. "You are leaving for Solitude again, at a time like this?"

Hadvar nodded, still rubbing his brow, glancing up to his uncle. "Yes. I'll be expected for reassignment in a day or two, and the journey will take most of that. I'll set out in the morning," his eyes settled on me. "I was hoping you might have room for Celeste here, in my absence?"

I sat a little straighter, taken aback. He was _still_ speaking for me? I had just plot a course of action for myself. "Thank you but – I couldn't possibly," I shook my head.

"Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of ours," Alvor agreed quietly with a shrug.

"Won't you be expected in Solitude for reassignment, too?" Sigrid asked at the same time. Her eyes flit over me curiously. Of course - Sigrid assumed that I was a soldier - I had forgotten about what I was wearing.

I opened my mouth to reply to Hadvar's aunt, but had no idea what I could say - and turned to Hadvar with a pleading expression. Okay, so maybe I _did_ need his help with this.

"It's all right," Hadvar urged quietly; placed a gentle, encouraging hand on my shoulder. "You can trust them."

He was leaving _this_ to me?

"All right," I replied shakily. I regarded the patient eyes of his family opposite us. "I'm a bard," I owned simply. "Not a soldier. I shouldn't have even _been_ in Helgen – I mean," I faltered, closing my eyes to centre myself. "There was a misunderstanding, at the border," I opened them again, huffing at my choice of words. Misunderstanding was an understatement. "I was caught up in it. Hadvar, he...he was the only one who..." I glanced to him, embarrassed that I was speaking all these words yet saying precisely nothing. And I dared to call myself a bard!

Catching the flicker of hearth fire, Hadvar's hair seemed much redder than it had outside. The light caught his jaw and nose, and cast shadows across his neck and cheek. The corner of his mouth rose in kind, supportive smile. I lifted my eyes to his, catching the briefest trace of that faraway look I had seen in him while I had been kneeling in the mountain flowers.

Dorthe's muffled giggle captured my attention. I turned back to them with a hasty shake to my head as my cheeks flamed. "Sorry," I stammered. "You must think I'm a madwoman. I have only fatigue to blame," I rolled my eyes.

 _What are you doing, idiot?_

Sigrid wore a thoughtful expression; the softest look I had seen grace the woman's features since we had arrived. She brought her tankard to her lips, but spoke before she took a sip. "Ah, Hadvar. Another stray?" she muttered endearingly.

"What?" I asked quietly with a small, nervous laugh, uncertain I had heard her properly.

She shook her head - it didn't matter - and gave me a knowing smile as she drank.

"No need for apologies, _or_ lengthy explanations," Alvor replied, his tone also more amicable than earlier. "As I said, any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of ours."

I nodded my thanks, but his words - and _acceptance_ \- made me want to give them _something_.

"Thank you, really. I owe Hadvar my life," I managed, meeting his uncle's eye – because I didn't trust I could meet Hadvar's again, for the moment. "He spoke for me, before the dragon came, when nobody else would listen," my throat tightened. I recalled the way he had said sorry while I was being led to the executioner's block. I had thought that his would be the last voice I would ever hear.

I lowered my eyes. Hadvar's cousin was staring at me, but I found no more amusement in her wide-eyed, enraptured gaze. "And then the dragon came and – Hadvar didn't have to come back for me – he could have run, like everybody else did - but. He didn't. He saved me. Again," I glanced to my tea. The room was silent, and I closed my eyes, wondering why I was telling them about _this_ , of all things.

 _Because Hadvar's actions deserve to be acknowledged,_ I prodded.

I glanced up to Sigrid with a more resolved smile. "I suppose I am a stray," I laughed weakly. "But I _cannot_ impose on your family. I am a bard – I can earn my keep."

Hadvar shuffled uneasily in the corner of my eye, but Dorthe broke the silence.

"Do you know Sven, then?"

I cast the little girl a curious look. "Who?"

"Never mind," Hadvar laughed; a sound that sent relief coursing through me and seemed to brighten the room. "And I'm sure Celeste won't go creating trouble for you like I do, aunty."

"You can take Hadvar's room?" Dorthe piped up quickly, helpfully.

"Shor's _bones_ , child, don't condemn her to that _pigsty_ ," Sigrid murmured, horrified. "Celeste, you can have Dorthe's room," she added hurriedly. "It's no imposition."

"But mama-!"

Hadvar cut over Dorthe's protest pointedly. "And while you're here, you could watch the skies, look out for the dragon, since you know _what_ to look for. I would consider it a personal favour," he added, his expression steady. "My contract prevents me from staying and protecting them myself."

I felt that this arrangement was doing _me_ more favours than him, but I agreed wordlessly, saddened by his admission. As eager as I was for independence, if he felt it was a kindness to remain, I would do so, for the moment.

"If you truly believe I can be of use – thank you. I would love to stay, for a time," I admitted. The village seemed safe and quiet, and these people, Hadvar's family, seemed to be as kind and honest as he was. They were a welcome relief.

"Then it is settled," Alvor rumbled in his quiet, gruff tone. "Hadvar, you'll make for Solitude in the morning, and Celeste will remain to help us fortify the village, so we are ready if your dragon is tempted down from the mountains."

Hadvar nodded. "Given the circumstances, I might be granted leave once I check in-"

"Don't use your leave up on our account," Alvor cut Hadvar off smoothly. "The sooner you finish your contract, the sooner you will be back home for good."

Hadvar's shoulders tensed and he shuffled, sitting straighter, but said nothing.

Sigrid stood abruptly, clearing her throat. "The pies will be ready soon," she changed the subject hurriedly. "Go clean yourselves up for dinner, okay?" she glanced between Hadvar and I. Worry marked her features, but it smoothed away when her eyes settled on her nephew. "You know the rule," her brow arched. "No armour at the dinner table."

Hadvar responded with a cheeky grin that made him seem younger again, but heat rose to my cheeks. I didn't have any other clothes.

With a nod to both of us, Sigrid left the table, hastily wiping her eyes and making for the stairs. Dorthe scuttled out of her seat at the same moment, and popped up by Hadvar's side.

"Was it huge?" Dorthe asked him with wide eyes. "Did it breathe fire everywhere?"

Hadvar nodded, but Alvor spoke before he could answer properly.

"Back to your chores, lass," he instructed gently, but with an edge that left no room for compromise.

Dorthe rolled her eyes in frustration and made a sound of dissent. "Yes, papa," she droned.

The tone, the words, the looks – their entire exchange took me aback. In that moment the exchange had reminded me vividly of dialogue with my dear father, which had ended with similar eye-rolls and frustrated huffs. I took a deep breath to reign back my feelings, lest I start weeping.

"Maybe we can tell you about it after dinner," Hadvar offered as she settled next to the hearth and resumed peeling vegetables.

Alvor cast us both an expectant look. While I wondered what it was he wanted of me, Hadvar sighed, then pushed his chair back. The chair legs made a loud scraping sound against the floorboards.

"All right," Hadvar hummed, grabbing another two dumplings in one hand and taking a long draught from his tea as he stood.

"Come on, Celeste," he cast his uncle a pointed, somewhat annoyed look. "You heard the lady of the house," he stepped back.

"Oh," I leapt up. _Right. No armour at the dinner table._

The downstairs section of the house was larger than the upper level. While I wondered if I could go to dinner in the red Legion-issue under-tunic, Hadvar led me down a hallway, past the kitchen and a couple of closed doors, then stopped at a doorway at the end.

He turned back to me as he reached for the handle. "Do you have anything to wear in that bag?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head as the blood rushed to my face again, but in truth I _was_ relieved that he had asked me.

He nodded tightly. His lips formed a line as he glanced down the hallway. "Okay," he sighed. "Wait here a moment. I'll see what I can do."

He opened the door and stepped within, closing it gently behind him.

I frowned at the wood panels with only my thoughts for company. I found it difficult to settle on any one thought. I went from wondering what Hadvar had meant, to wondering how I could be of use to his family if I remained in Riverwood, to the prospect of more dragon attacks. This led me to wonder how a wood and thatch village might possibly be fortified against a creature that could breathe and rain fire.

The minutes ticked by, and Hadvar reappeared, dressed in a common pair of brown trousers and a simple green tunic, his arms laden with cloth items.

"Here," he offered. "They were mine, when I was a lad. Something in there should fit you."

It was more than I could have hoped for and I accepted the load gratefully. "Th-thank you," I managed as I dipped to catch a piece of cream cloth – a shirt? - as it tried to fall from the bundle. "Where can I change?"

"Oh -" he hurriedly stepped out of the room, waving for me to enter. "Here – I mean, it's as good as any other place. You can leave the armour with mine."

I dipped my thanks as I stepped past him, and Hadvar closed the door behind me with a soft _click._

It was Hadvar's room – that much was obvious. It was not, as his aunt had called it, a pigsty. It was dusty from disuse, but otherwise looked like the organised space of a man that had once been the private retreat of a boy.

The room was small – containing a single bed against one wall, a wardrobe against the other, and a small bookshelf on the back wall, pressed up next to the bed and doubling as a side table. On the wall hung a shield – Imperial Legion issue, I thought, though it looked older than those that were currently in circulation. Hadvar had laid his armour out next to the bookshelf, on the floor.

I offloaded the clothes onto the bed, then placed my pack next to Hadvar's armour, reasoning that I wouldn't need it again tonight. I was unable to resist glancing at the bookshelf, but tore my eyes away before I could paw through his collection. I raked my eyes over the clothing Hadvar had brought me instead.

There were a couple of tunics and pairs of trousers, and most looked as though they belonged in the wardrobe of a twelve-year-old boy. He'd thrown in a couple of pairs of socks, too. I shimmied out of the Legion kilt, then started to unlace the Imperial armour as I picked out what I would wear. The cream under-shirt I had nearly dropped before, for warmth. A maroon over-tunic, lined in brown cord, with a string and eyelets at the neck, so I might adjust the fit a little. A pair of worn, grey trousers, again with ties at the waist, to adjust.

With the armour unfastened enough to wriggle out of, I lifted it over my head and gasped as my muscles protested and ached when I lowered it to the floor. With a little stumble, I reached back, steadying myself against the wardrobe doors, landing against it with a _clunk_.

 _You haven't slept in a while, you know._

"Are you all right?" Hadvar's called from outside.

I nodded, then vaguely remembered he couldn't see me. I shook my head at myself and sat on the bed, to pull off my boots. "I'm all right," I called, quaking a little. "I won't be much longer."

My feet throbbed when the leather slipped off, and I stared down in disbelief at the blisters that had developed during our escape. I hadn't even felt them, before I had seen them.

 _Then you can live with them a little longer,_ I told myself. _Get dressed - you have potions in your pack, remember?_

I shuffled into the clothing I had picked out before. The trousers clung to my hips, the cream tunic hung around my thighs like a sack and tightened across my bust, and the maroon one's sleeves reached about half way along my forearms. But overall, the garments were unexpectedly comfortable. I eased my aching feet into the softest pair of socks he had brought, then sat up and loosened the ties at the neck of the maroon tunic, so the material didn't pull so obviously.

Though I was now dressed, I felt incomplete. Raking my hands through my hair, I unknotted the curls as I grimaced, ashamed by the filth I felt there. Gods, I needed a bath.

Re-plaiting my hair as best I could without a mirror or comb, I knotted the braid into a bun at the back of my head in a furtive attempt to hide it, then hastened to the door.

Hadvar glanced over me when I opened it. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd fallen asleep," he grinned.

I motioned for us to proceed as I replied with a tilt of my own. "Merely struggling to make myself presentable, after two armies and a dragon attack, no bath, and in boy's clothing," I replied wryly.

"You look nice," Hadvar dismissed easily, then clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's go help my aunt. Her pies are worth fighting a fire-breathing dragon for."

I glanced up and laughed, wondering how my luck had flipped and thrown me into Hadvar's path. This time yesterday, I was on the back of a prisoner cart on the way to Helgen with my enemy and knew nothing of dragons. Now I was warm, safe and clothed, about to sit down to a meal with people who, after knowing me for minutes, had agreed to take me in.

Perhaps the storm that had torn through my life since my parents had died was finally over?

* * *

 _A/n: Bit of a slow chapter, but I really wanted to establish a sense of Alvor, Dorthe and Sigrid's characters - hopefully you think I did them justice (so far), given what we're presented with in-game. Thanks for the reviews so far, by the way. I'm relieved that Celeste's story is of interest to someone other than myself. I'm updating as quickly as possible - but as always, work gets in the way of writing more often than I'd like._


	8. Eye of the Storm

_Chapter 8: Eye of the Storm_

Dinner was a merry affair, and as Hadvar had intimated, Sigrid's pies were certainly worth waiting for. There were two chicken pies, one with mushrooms, a salmon and leek pie, and a thin, eggy, cheese and potato pie. I couldn't remember ever having tasted their equal.

As the newcomer, many innocent questions were sent my way while we ate. It all began with Dorthe, who grew bolder as dinner progressed. She was younger than I had assumed at only seven years old. Her initial reserve, and her height, had made me think she was older than she was.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" she asked after a few mouthfuls of her serving, glancing quickly to her mother as though confirming that this was acceptable dinner conversation.

I felt I could answer her without reducing to tears. "I do," I smiled. "I have a twin sister, actually. Her name is Giselle, and she's studying to be a Mage in High Rock."

Hadvar glanced at me with interest on my left, but his cousin replied quickly and I kept my focus on her.

"A sister?" Dorthe cast her mother a wistful look. "I wish _I_ had a sister," she added quietly.

"One of you is quite enough for me to chase after, thank you," Sigrid warned pointedly, then turned to me. "Your poor mother, having _two_ young girls to raise at once."

I laughed a little, though my heart hammered as I fumbled for a way to prevent talking about my parents. "I believe mother always wanted to have _more_ than two of us. I'm not sure why they never did," I shrugged, taking a drink from the tankard in front of me, to give me a moment to compose myself. I had been offered mead or ale, but had opted for water instead. To preserve our voices, bards rarely drank, and when we did it was usually only small amounts of wine. Our Bard's college excursions to the Skeever every fortnight had been sociable, but altogether moderate affairs.

"Of course, now I can only speculate," I added after I had swallowed.

My words had the desired effect; Sigrid seemed to understand what I had left unsaid. Dorthe looked expectantly to her mother, and Sigrid shook her head minutely; wordless instruction that she should not ask me _why_.

Alvor spoke up jovially enough, also picking up his tankard, which was brimming with a strong, home-brewed ale. "Many of us find ourselves on paths we didn't expect to tread in life."

His words were strangely poetic for a blacksmith, and I glanced at him a little incredulously, wondering what path _he_ had expected to tread, and how far he had deviated from it to arrive where he was. "Very true," I conceded, inclining my head in appreciation.

Sigrid sighed, shifting her food around on her plate. "It's _far_ too early in the night for philosophy, Alvor. Celeste," she gave me a bright look, "tell us about your studies. What did you major in at the Bard's college?"

I cast Alvor another quick, intrigued glance – _philosophy, from a blacksmith_? As with Hadvar, there was clearly more to Alvor than met the eye.

"Lute, mostly," I answered dutifully, shifting my attention to Hadvar's aunt. "With extensive vocal training from Pantea Ateia, who has been teaching for a time at the college, in between her tours of Skyrim," I added.

Sigrid _hmmed_ with interest, though I could tell from her polite look and tone that she had no idea who I was talking about. And, why should she, I reasoned? I very much doubted that Riverwood was on Dean Ateia's regular circuit.

Dorthe looked between her mother and I again. "But...where's your lute? Don't bards...travel with their instruments?" she asked uncertainly.

"Usually, yes," I tensed again, but made an effort to smile at Dorthe. It was a weak smile that I'm not certain even the seven-year-old believed.

Hadvar picked up the rest for me, his manner comfortable. "Celeste's lute and her travelling gear were in Helgen, when we escaped the dragon."

"Oh no!" Dorthe spun to her cousin. "Did the dragon set them on fire?" she asked in dismay.

Hadvar let out a small, incredulous laugh, and I turned, casting him an apologetic look.

He quickly glanced at me, meeting my expression with a supportive half-smile, then turned back to his cousin. "Most probably, though I doubt it was aiming _specifically_ for her things. We had rather better things to do than stand around and watch it, like _escape with our lives_ ," he widened his eyes pointedly, emphasising with some sarcasm to his tone.

Dorthe huffed and slouched back, clearly frustrated. "I wish _I'd_ seen the dragon. Old Hilde said-"

"No you don't," her mother cut in quickly.

Alvor shook his head, speaking at the same time. "You can see dragons aplenty in your storybooks, lass. Don't wish them down on us here."

"But mama, Hilde said she _saw_ it," she insisted. "Sven didn't believe her. He was pretty mean about it, too," she added sadly, staring down at her plate in consideration.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to be," Sigrid replied gently.

Dorthe looked up in realisation; her eyes wider. "Can I go tell her what Hadvar and Celeste-?"

" _No_ ," Alvor, Hadvar and Sigrid all chorused firmly.

I startled as their 'no' echoed around the small room and bounced between my ears. Dorthe's shoulders slumped and she looked as exasperated as before, rolling her eyes at the reprimand.

Dorthe's dramatic defeat set me off; an unexpected laugh bubbled out of me. I covered my mouth swiftly and bit my bottom lip to swallow it, but all eyes turned to check my response. Laughter rippled through me, more determined, spiting my efforts to smother it.

While both Sigrid smiled and Alvor chuckled, Dorthe crossed her brows in confusion. I glanced away from her perplexed expression and found Hadvar trying to stop himself from laughing, too. His sparkling eyes met mine and his mouth curled up as he silently shook from suppressed mirth.

 _He_ only made matters worse. I could contain myself no longer, and turned my eyes down to my plate as I grinned at my half-eaten meal, eyes brimming with tears of restrained laughter.

"What?" Dorthe's bemused, somewhat suspicious tone cut through our chortles, but did little to thwart them. "What's so funny?"

"Peace, lass," Sigrid calmed herself, more cheery than earlier as she fondly sighed at her daughter. "Sometimes laughter is like a cold, and simply catches."

Alvor raised his tankard to her then as his chuckle ebbed. "And now who's the philosopher, wife?"

"Hush, _husband_ ," Sigrid murmured, batting Alvor on the shoulder playfully. "It is time to _eat_."

As the uncontrollable urge to laugh left me, a warm comfort took its place and I found myself feeling more contented than I had for...weeks. I smiled across the table at the little family, before I glanced to the man who had made feeling it possible.

He was grinning, about to take a drink from his tankard of mead.

This would not last forever - whatever _this_ was. The moment was all that mattered - it was all the time we might have - and gratitude washed over me. "Thank you," I murmured warmly.

He lowered his tankard and the happiness was marred by a slight furrow to his brow. "For what?"

Was he joking? "For everything?" I tried not to laugh again. "Saving me, bringing me into your home, clothing me," I motioned to what I wore.

"Ah," Hadvar may have pinked a little, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light of the hearth. He waved dismissively, as though his deeds had been nothing.

"You know, I _did_ wonder about that," Sigrid said shrewdly, drawing my attention back to the other side of the table. "I thought I recognised that tunic, though it's been a few years since I saw it."

Flushing a little, I smiled appreciatively. "I'm grateful for it, truly. As Hadvar told you, everything I brought with me from Solitude was lost in Helgen."

Sigrid tilted her head thoughtfully as her eyes glanced over me critically. "I have a few dresses that might fit you, though they might be too long. You are such a little thing, aren't you?"

A flush crept up my cheeks, but before I could reply she continued.

"Perhaps we can arrange something with Lucan tomorrow?" she mused, then explained directly. "He's the shop keeper across the way. Carries a bit of everything, or can order something from Whiterun to be brought down on his next supply cart."

I bowed my head in thanks. "I will make enquiries to the shopkeeper tomorrow, then. Perhaps I can arrange a line of credit with him, so I might access my account, which would make everything so much simpler," I felt the need to touch on the fact that I was at that moment, essentially, broke.

"We'll figure something out," Sigrid replied with easy confidence; a tone that made me feel warm and accepted, all over again.

I found myself nodding. How could I ever repay this kindness they were showing me? "Thank you," I murmured quietly.

Dinner progressed and the conversation ambled over how life had been progressing for Hadvar's family. The soldier wanted to know how Sigrid's garden was faring; how Dorthe's studies were going; how Alvor's shop was doing.

I ate and listened with interest, trying to remember when my family had last sat down to dinner together and simply talked about our lives. Not because we hadn't wanted to, I told myself stubbornly, but we had always been so busy...

I shoved my thoughts aside, realising that if I kept on this path, they would consume the bright cheerfulness and leave me with the black grief again. It would do me no favours to compare Hadvar's family to my own, particularly when there was no way to alter what was in the past.

–

When Sigrid took Dorthe to prepare for bed, Alvor's manner changed from light-hearted to concerned, almost at once.

"If your dragon decides to come down from the mountains, Riverwood is done for," he muttered.

Hadvar sat back, appealing to the ceiling as he sighed. "It's not... _my_ dragon, uncle."

"Even so, lad-"

"I know," Hadvar cut him off and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table and his forehead in his palms. " _Damned_ _Stormcloaks_ ," he added through his teeth.

I glanced between the two men uncertainly and hazarded a reply. "But, surely if we fortify the village, and prepare with water barrels and ready archers – and petition the Jarl to send assistance – won't we at least...?"

Hadvar lifted his head, fixing me with a look that silenced me. _Remember Helgen,_ it simply said.

Alvor spoke up kindly. "Even if the Jarl is able to spare legions of his finest archers, which I doubt he will," the smith collected his tankard and frowned into it. "Our homes are wood, and our roofs are thatch. We are kindling for a fire-breathing dragon."

Hadvar made a frustrated sound, and I tore my eyes from his uncle, startled by the ferocity behind it. His eyes flashed; lightning in the storminess.

"There _has_ to be a way," he insisted. Beyond his vexation, I could almost see his mind ticking over the problem. "Come on, Alvor. Put your ale down, clear your head, and _think_ , for a moment," he ordered his uncle. "We're not dead yet."

Hadvar's words lit something deep within me that might have been hope; demanding that I stand and fight and be _brave_ , for once in my life. I shuddered at the force behind its blaze as my heartbeat hammered in my ears.

It was strange to see the young ordering the old, and even stranger to see Alvor's shoulders slump. He nodded and replaced his ale in the middle of the table.

"You're right, lad. I'm just tired," his eyes swivelled to me. "Sorry, Celeste. A miserable old man isn't much the hosting type."

I blinked and straightened my shoulders, maintaining the blacksmith's gaze as the urgent, bright need to help them overcame me. "You have every right to be worried and no reason to apologise," I managed openly.

"Hadvar is right," I glanced to my left, meeting him with resolve. "If your nephew hadn't acted when hope seemed lost, I would be dead," I reminded them, maintaining Hadvar's gaze all the while. "So now we must act. Tell me what I can do to help?" I asked him.

The sight of two grown men with their emotions exposed casting about for solutions had a strange effect on me. My chest swelled, my heart sang a song I had never heard, and my eyes felt bright as I acknowledged that I _would_ do whatever I had to, to protect these people.

Hadvar opened his mouth but hesitated, blinking in confusion as he closed it.

I turned back to Alvor as a way crossed my mind. "My father was a Thane of Haafingar to the High King, and was well known to Jarl Balgruuf," I told the smith unfalteringly. Hadvar tensed to my left and I ignored the warning touch to my elbow. I was not going to sit here and hide when I could help.

"I could petition the Jarl on Riverwood's behalf, ask him to send soldiers," I offered. "I might be able to speed up the process," I added reasonably. "I can make for Whiterun first thing in the morning."

Alvor's golden eyes watched me closely, searching and weighing me anew. Hadvar's hand fell from my elbow and I bore his uncle's assessment silently, waiting.

As though he could hold back no longer, Hadvar burst out hurriedly. "It would not be wise to be seen in Whiterun, so soon after Helgen."

"It's all right," I turned in my seat toward him and smiled, relieved that I had come up with a way to truly be of use to them. "The Jarl is for the Empire. Father was with him in Whiterun for the weeks before the High King's murder. He will see me, even if it is at first only a gesture of respect."

Hadvar's brows were crossed, and his tone, determined. "And if you _are_ considered to be a spy for the Stormcloaks in the eyes of the Empire? You will be arrested on sight by the guard and taken to Solitude to answer for it. What will you do then?"

Alvor shifted in the corner of my eye, but my gaze was locked on Hadvar. A challenge rose within me, fuelled by the bright hope demanding that I stand and face events head-on. Why was he trying to hold me back? Didn't he _want_ me to help his family?

I took a steadying breath, then managed a level tone as I replied stoically; "I will tell them the truth."

Hadvar shook his head in exasperation. "I brought you here to keep you safe, not so you could stumble straight back out into the wilds of Skyrim or worse," he waved his hand toward the door in emphasis, "the capital of the Hold, where you'll be recognised and - _Shor_ knows what will happen to you then!"

I flushed with indignation, and I could almost feel a fire building within him too, crackling between us. Why was he was arguing with me? As grateful as I was for his help, it did not make me his responsibility, or _his property,_ to be tucked away or _caged._

Feeling suddenly at a loss with him, and both confused and scared by a furious voice within me ordering me to flee, I stood hastily. I bowed in cede to Hadvar, and then Alvor. If I didn't put an end to this, I would do or say something I might regret, and they did not deserve that.

"I am sorry for making such a scene," I told the blacksmith, shaking with restraint, my control tethered but close to snapping. "I will leave for Whiterun in the morning, and petition the Jarl to send assistance to protect your village. It is the least I can do," I flashed Hadvar a glare, warning, _daring_ him to interrupt me again.

His wounded look struck me dumb, filling me with instant regret. The soldier sat back, exhaling loudly and running his hand through his hair. His stormy eyes were full of disbelief as they flickered over me, but he said nothing.

"I think _both_ of you have had a very long, stressful day and need to stop talking," Sigrid's voice cut through the charged air from the landing. I turned to her, flushing as my childish behaviour caught up with me.

Her arms were crossed and her worried eyes were on Hadvar; a look that made me want to cry. "Get some rest," she said it kindly; almost a plea. "The fate of the village can wait until morning," her eyebrows lifted as her mouth curled into an ironic smile.

The angry snarl that had snaked within me begrudgingly withdrew. We _were_ acting as though the future of the world rested on our shoulders, weren't we? It was a little silly. Sigrid was right; it had been a stressful day – week – _month._

"Yes, that might be best," I found my voice, nodding graciously to Hadvar's aunt as I moved toward the staircase, intent on retrieving my pack from Hadvar's room. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, and for sharing your delicious dinner," I added, lowering my voice as I neared her. "It might be best if I retrieve my belongings and secure a room in the inn, to leave your family in peace."

Sigrid smiled knowingly at me. "You can do what you like, but I've already made up a bed for you, if you want to save yourself the gold."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," I faltered, flushing. "I've imposed on your kindness too much already."

I didn't miss the stern glance Sigrid flicked her nephew, but then her eyes were back on me; her welcoming smile in place as she reached out, touching my arm lightly. "It's no imposition, dear. Just a cot in the shop downstairs. It's yours if you want it. If not, that's fine as well."

"Don't go, Celeste," Hadvar's voice cut across the room with a sigh. "Save your money," he added.

I stilled at the apology in his words, again feeling wretched. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes; worried that I would find that wounded disappointment again, and that it would cut me anew.

 _You're using them,_ my eyes thudded closed. _And storming out is ungrateful. Fix things with Hadvar._

"All right," I accepted with all the grace I could muster, lifting my eyes to Sigrid and making a concerted effort to keep my voice steady. "On the condition that you accept my offer to assist you by leaving for Whiterun at dawn to petition the Jarl."

"No need for bargains amongst friends," Sigrid's hand tightened in an encouraging way on my forearm. "Do what you feel is right, _after_ you've slept on it."

There was much she was leaving unsaid. I met her pale, green eyes with a small nod of assent. "I will."

* * *

 _A/n: Thanks so much for the encouragement and kind words, Cake-san. I have to admit I really enjoy character building too...if it wasn't obvious._


	9. Parting Is Not Sweet Sorrow

_Chapter 9: Parting Is Not Sweet Sorrow_

Sigrid had not just set up a cot for me. When I stepped into the downstairs shop, the small bed was made up and smoothed, with a pillow at one and and a towel folded neatly on the other. Next to it was a stout bench on which lay a pile of clothes, a hair brush, and soap. On the other side of the cot was the pack I had acquired in Helgen; she must have retrieved it from Hadvar's room. On the floor before it was a bathing barrel full of water.

I watched steam drifting up from the bath, and swallowed down the ache rising through my chest to constrict my throat. Somehow, her neat preparations were painful.

 _Must everything threaten to reduce you to tears,_ I asked crossly?

Taking a shaky breath, I stepped inside. _Bathe. Sleep. Rise. Go to Whiterun._

I folded the clothes I had borrowed, unbound my filthy hair, grabbed the soap and settled into the tub. For a time I scrubbed and washed until my skin was clean, then got to work on my hair. As I worked, I focused on the day ahead of me, and how I might phrase my appeal to the Jarl of Whiterun.

Hadvar's concerns had been valid, but I had little choice but to approach the city as a Passero, if I wanted to use my father's familiarity to my, and Riverwood's, advantage. Once I had introduced myself I would need to explain what had happened in Helgen, in part, anyway. The entire point of the journey was to tell him about the dragon.

 _Jarl Balgruuf, the rumours you have heard about Helgen are true..._

 _My Jarl – wait, is it 'my Lord', unless I'm a resident of his Hold?_

 _I was in Helgen when it was destroyed by a dragon..._

I cursed as the soap slipped out of my fingers and splashed into the water. I dug around to retrieve it, frustrated at my inability to settle on the right words. I was a bard, for Shor's sake! I should have been able to spin the most convincing, beautiful, _right_ words in my sleep.

 _Then approach the task as though it is a performance,_ my brain supplied.

I shook my head as I stood and wrapped the towel around myself. Stepping out of the bath, I knelt beside it and continued working on my hair.

 _Jarl Balgruuf is busy and impatient. If you try to win him with pretty poetry, he will dismiss you. You must present him with the facts and trust that he will act in his people's best interests._

I washed the soap out of my hair, closing my eyes and taking deep, measured breaths, as I had been trained to do to calm my nerves before singing. I took a moment to enjoy the feel of my fingers untangling the strands of wet hair, then squeezed out what moisture I could. Relief washed through me; I was safe and clean, and alive. I could do this.

I rose and checked through the garments Sigrid had supplied. A long, creamy woollen under-tunic that I could sleep in, and a rust-coloured apron-skirt with shoulder-straps that fastened on the front panel with tiny bronze buttons. They were simple and traditional, and far more than I could have asked for. It was entirely suitable to wear while pleading my case to the Jarl.

After donning the under-tunic, I sat on the neatly-made bed and tried to dry my hair with the wet towel. I glanced around the small shop with interest. There were several pieces on the counter by the back wall; standard iron armour, short swords and daggers. Generic items that were undoubtedly made generic to meet demand and move along. On the wall hung several round, hide-covered shields, each with woven knotwork around the edges.

How much business did Hadvar's family get in Riverwood? It couldn't have been much. I rose to inspect the wares on the countertop more closely, and ran my hand around the curve of a more finely-crafted steel breastplate. It was cool to touch, and perfectly smooth, except where it was etched with curling knotwork of its own, that hadn't been visible until I had been close enough to see it.

I smiled at the design. Alvor was a true artist, if this was all his work. Had that been the path he had hoped to tread - creating art, for the joy of it - before his life had lead him to smithing. Perhaps he and I were not so dissimilar. Perhaps, after I had returned from Whiterun, I could ask him.

"Celeste?"

Hadvar's query was accompanied by a soft, hesitant knock to the doorframe.

I turned swiftly, whipping my hand off the armour. "Sorry. I was just admiring it," I explained hastily. "It's really...very beautiful."

"Sorry?" Hadvar stepped into the room, his confusion abating when he focused on me. He came to a halt and his eyes widened as he looked me up and down.

"You're clean," he accused.

I hadn't expected _that_. "I am," I replied steadily, squashing a curl of amusement as I tried to keep from giggling at him.

His eyes found the bathing tub and widened even more. "My aunt drew you a _bath_? She must really like you."

I wasn't sure of how to answer, but was eager to make things right between us. "Hadvar," I turned to face him properly, my tone warm with restrained laughter. "What did you need?"

His stormy-grey eyes swivelled back to me. "She told me to go jump in the river to wash off before bed. Do you know how cold that water is?"

I let the giggle slip as the soldier shook his head in baffled disbelief.

Hadvar's small smile convinced me that he was trying _his_ best to make the air comfortable between us once more, as well. It comforted me to know that we _both_ wanted to be friends.

"I just wanted to apologise," he admitted with that agreeable lilt to his accent. "You offered a great service to my family, and I had no right to say what I said."

"Oh," I blinked. We _were_ going to talk about it?

Hadvar watched me for a response; I had been silent for too long. "I'm sorry, too," I fumbled in a rush. "I'm not sure what came over me. You must think I'm such a spoilt brat," I lifted my eyebrows, unable to meet his eyes as I trailed off.

It was Hadvar's turn to chuckle. "I don't think that's true. A spoilt child expects good fortune; you seem determined to earn yours."

I smirked at him. "I doubt either of us expected _good fortune_ to fall from the sky breathing fire."

"Yet, here we are," Hadvar countered cheerfully. "Alive, despite Skyrim throwing dragons and bears at us."

"Not to mention the war," I added with a soft laugh. It felt good, if not a little strange, to joke about all we had faced so soon, but somehow, Riverwood had distanced us from the horrors we had endured.

Hadvar glanced to the ceiling, groaning as he ran his hands down his face. "Don't remind me," his words were muffled, then he lowered his hands and glanced at me a little uncertainly. "That reminds me. I'll write to you once I've had a chance to speak to my superiors about what happened in Helgen. Let you know what the outcome is."

I smiled gratefully and nodded. "Thank you. After I have petitioned Jarl Balgruuf, I'll return to Riverwood and await your letter."

"Great," he seemed happier all at once, smiling widely in what looked like relief. "I'm glad you've decided to stay."

"With such a warm welcome, your family may have trouble getting rid of me," I joked.

"I can live with that," his smile shifted into something more teasing. "Just, promise me you won't sell my stuff."

I glanced down to hide my laugh as relief coursed through me. Things were well between us again - before we had to leave each other on the morrow. I couldn't have asked for more.

Of course, I didn't intend on staying in Riverwood for long. I would return to tell Hadvar's family of my audience with the Jarl, and hoped to find Hadvar's letter upon my return, detailing my fate. But now was not the time to debate the point with him.

"All right, then," Hadvar took a step toward the exit. "I'll see you in the morning. Sleep well."

"You too."

Once Hadvar had left, I extinguished the lanterns and settled in the cosy cot. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I stared at the wooden ceiling of the shop; the floorboards of the upper level. All was quiet, and calm, and despite being uncertain of what challenges tomorrow might bring, it didn't take me long to fall asleep.

–

"Mama, _please_ let me go to Whiterun with Celeste."

"Absolutely not!"

"But she'll be coming straight back! I won't get in the way."

These were the words that met me when I ascended to the top level the next morning. I felt entirely refreshed and had already prepared for my journey; wearing the under-tunic I'd slept in, the apron-dress over it, and stockings that Sigrid had provided with the Legion boots that I'd been wearing since Helgen. My hair flew free over my shoulders, tousled from sleep, but it would be worse after the walk, and I would see to it before I addressed the Jarl. It would be a waste of time to bind it now.

I stepped onto the landing and focused on mother and daughter. They were at the dining table, dressed for the day already and taking their breakfasts. Sigrid had a cup of steaming tea before her, and Dorthe a wooden cup milk. Alvor wasn't there, but I assumed that, like most blacksmiths, he started work early. The muted sound of a hammer beating against metal from the direction of the forge confirmed it.

"She'll be on important business, she can't possibly– " Sigrid began.

Dorthe spotted me and cut in hurriedly. "Celeste! Can't I come with you? Please?"

I approached and put my readied backpack down next to the seat I had occupied the night before, smiling apologetically at Sigrid. The smell of cooked fruits and spices made me suddenly ravenous. "Not this time, Dorthe. The audience with the Jarl will be boring – and what if the dragon comes to Riverwood while I'm gone? You'd miss it again."

Perhaps she had forgotten about the dragon; her eyes widened. "Do you really think it'll come before you get back?" she asked quietly.

I shrugged. Sigrid cast me a knowing glance, then rose, moving to the hearth and stirring something in a pot over the flames.

"Who can say what a dragon will do?" I mused. "But we can't all go to Whiterun. These are dark days," I spun. "Each of us have our duties. Someone has to remain in Riverwood with their eyes on the sky, just in case."

She hesitated; seemed to weigh the prospect of seeing a dragon against a journey to the Hold's capital. Then she nodded, her mouth thinning into a determined straight line. "Okay. I'll do it."

I smiled with some fondness, glancing up as Sigrid delivered a tankard of tea.

"A wise choice," Sigrid murmured. "Now Celeste, eat all you like. There's milk for your tea there," she indicated the same small jug from the previous night. "We're having porridge and spiced apples," she indicated the pot over the hearth, then assessed her table a little critically. "If you'd prefer something else-"

"Thank you," I inclined my head graciously. "This smells _incredible_."

Sigrid frowned, her eyes still on her table. "Don't be shy, dear," she insisted. "The porridge is a bit lumpy, and I expect you've not had a proper breakfast for a while. It'll just take a moment to whip you up some eggs, and I have a few sausages in the cellar-"

"Ooh, can I have sausages, mama?"

Sigrid cast her daughter a wide-eyed, not-now sort of look.

"No really, there is no need," I repeated with a flush.

I stood, pulling Sigrid's chair back for her. "Please, finish your tea. Relax. Porridge is great," I smiled supportively.

Dorthe piped up as her mother reluctantly sat down. "I like mine with honey, cinnamon _and_ milk," she told me proudly.

"That sounds delicious," I told her. "Will you show me?"

Sigrid settled and Dorthe took me to the hearth. After ladling up some of the hot oats, Dorthe took me through exactly how to add the right amounts of each condiment to the meal, then towed me back to sit. Sigrid simply watched, drinking her tea and smiling a little to herself now and then.

After a minute or two of eating, the door from the outside opened, letting in a gust of icy breeze and a windswept, efficient-looking Hadvar.

"All right, aunty," Hadvar said cheerily as he closed the door, shedding his coat and scarf. When he noticed me, he flashed a smile, but continued to address his aunt. "Faendel has agreed to chop wood for the forge, if Alvor will repair his bow and provide him with a quiver of steel arrows a week."

" _Steel_?" Sigrid sighed.

"It's either that or you teach Dorthe to swing an axe," Hadvar sat at the end of the table, then reached out and helped himself to a pear from the fruit bowl.

Dorthe sat straighter, asking earnestly. "Can I-?"

" _No_ ," Sigrid cut in.

"Aww," Dorthe sat back, her shoulders slumping.

Sigrid shook her head; her eyes sad as they settled on her nephew. "Thank you, Hadvar," she murmured in a muted tone.

Hadvar sat forward and rested his hand over hers, squeezing encouragingly. "Aunty, this war won't last forever."

She nodded, but said nothing more.

I ate, wondering what was being left unsaid. It was clear that Hadvar's family wanted him back. But then, no family wanted their loved ones away at war, so that was not unusual. From what I could gather, Hadvar had been out securing the help of someone to take up a job that had once, perhaps, been his. And by doing so, it was costing his family a little of their livelihood.

I swallowed my mouthful and spoke as an idea occurred to me. "Why don't I take some of Alvor's work to Whiterun to sell for him?"

All three sets of eyes at the table turned to me, each in various states of confusion.

"I mean," I clarified, "there'll be a marketplace, won't there? Perhaps I can get you a good price, move some of your stock?" I brightened. It would make me feel better about landing on their family during these difficult times.

Sigrid looked regretful as she shook her head. "Whiterun is home to Eorlund Grey-Mane."

I crossed my brows, and she explained with a sigh.

"He's the finest smith in Skyrim, dear," she shrugged. "Whiterun has no need of our wares."

"But," my brows remained crossed. "Alvor's work is beautiful. I was admiring it last night, before I went to bed," I told her. "Surely this Grey-Mane fellow's gear can't be to everybody's tastes?"

"Perhaps not," Sigrid agreed, "but it's impossible to fetch a decent price for anything that isn't Skyforge steel in Whiterun. And when Grey-Mane's shop doesn't meet the needs, there's Warmaiden's – another smithy, if you can believe it. You'd be weighing yourself down for nothing."

"The Avenicci's are smithing for the Legion, though," Hadvar's expression had become supportive over the course of our conversation. "And Grey-Mane provides little for anyone but the Companions these days, or so I've heard. He refuses to back anyone who might sell on to the Legion. Celeste's idea has merit."

Sigrid still seemed uncertain.

"What if she just takes the leather?" Dorthe asked hopefully. "That won't weigh her down at all!"

Sigrid glanced to her daughter before she laughed a little. "Well, I know when I'm outnumbered," she smiled at me. "If you are certain-?"

"I am," I assured her. "It's no trouble."

She nodded; "That would be very kind of you."

I grinned. "Great. I'll sell it before I address the Jarl."

"All right," Sigrid stood, looking pinked but more pleased. She waved at my bowl of half-eaten porridge. "Finish up your breakfast. Take as long as you like. I'll check through the shop," she bustled away.

Hadvar shifted to the seat his aunt had been occupying, next to me.

"That," he met my eyes with appreciation in his, "was a _fantastic_ idea."

He reached across the table, grabbing a bowl of stewed apple that sitting in Sigrid's seat had put him within reach of. "I was worried I'd be leaving her in tears, again," he took up a spoonful of the spicy fruit hungrily. "By the Eight, I'm going to miss this food," he mumbled through his mouthful.

" _Hadvar_ ," Dorthe piped up. "You really shouldn't talk while you're eating, it's very rude," she said in a voice with a trace of her mother's tone. "You'll offend our guest."

I had to laugh at them, and ducked my head, spooning up some more porridge to hide it.

Hadvar swallowed and replaced the bowl as he threw me an amused, sideways glance. "I'm sure she'll forgive me. We don't get anything like your mama's food in the army."

 _He'll be leaving soon._ My smile fell as my merriment waned. "When are you setting out for Solitude?"

"Within the hour," his eyes widened as though there was still much to do before leaving. He pressed his hands on the table as he rose. "Which means, I need to get changed. Can't have the Legion think I've been dallying in Riverwood," he added wryly as he moved toward the staircase.

My chest fluttered - _we_ would soon be parting. I barely knew him, or his family, yet it made me ache to think that I might not see him again.

I stood hastily, without any reason to. "You will say good bye, before you go?"

I suppressed a wince as soon as the words fled my mouth; they were small and needy.

Hadvar paused, then cast me an easy, lopsided smile over his shoulder. "No way. Not a fan of good byes. I'll be sneaking out a window as soon as I'm ready."

Narrowing my eyes, I suppressed the urge to throw something at him.

He descended the stairs at a run, and I turned back to my breakfast.

Before I'd eaten another mouthful, Dorthe spoke up suspiciously. "You're going to kiss him, aren't you?"

"What?" I nearly dropped my spoon; my giddy smile faltered.

"Or he's going to kiss you. I'm not sure how these things work," she mused with a half-frown, then quickly perked up. "Are you going to marry him?"

I sat back and regarded the seven-year-old with startled, wide eyes. "Whatever makes you say that? We met yesterday."

"I can be your flower girl!" Dorthe sat back in her chair too, lifting her spoon with a happy smile.

"Dorthe, I'm nineteen," I shook my surprise off with a desperate laugh. "I have no plans to marry _anybody_."

"But _you're_ nice and pretty, and Hadvar is nice and handsome; your babies would be _so sweet._ Mama and papa married when they were eighteen," Dorthe advised pointedly, then ate her last spoonful and cast her spoon into the empty bowl with a dull clatter. "All done! I'll be at the forge if mama asks," she pushed her chair back hurriedly.

I watched her leaving as I tried to catch up to what she'd said. When unchecked, everything she did was _fast_.

She spun back to me quickly, before she had reached the door. "I don't mind, you know. If you want to marry my cousin. I won't tell him," her eyes shone, thrilled at the prospect of safekeeping this special secret she had invented.

And with the door clicking shut behind her, she was gone.

I lifted my eyebrows and let out a weighty puff of air as I stared into my bowl. I wanted to both laugh and cry. I respected Hadvar and owed my life to him, but...kiss Hadvar? _Marry_ Hadvar? Hadvar _who_? I still didn't know his family name, yet here I was, sitting dumbstruck at his dining table, allowing myself to be rattled by the wild musings of his cousin.

 _She's seven,_ I told myself. I couldn't remember what being seven years old was like, but I was fairly sure that Giselle and I had assumed every unmarried man and woman that spoke to one another should marry, too, and would bargain over which couple we'd each be flower girl for.

 _Any excuse to wear a pretty dress,_ I smiled sadly. Back then, we had competed, and fought over minor things, but we had also spent a lot of time together, as friends.

I didn't have long to mull over my sister, or Dorthe's startling presumption. Soon after Dorthe had left, Sigrid ascended with an armload of leather armour, talking about why certain items might fetch a higher price and asking my opinion of each on her shortlist.

I knelt on the floor with her and poured over the leatherwork; a welcome distraction from the memory of a Giselle who loved me, and the looming farewell to a man that, if only I could know him better, I just might.

–

By the time Sigrid and I sorted through the leather armour, Hadvar joined us upstairs, dressed in the Legion armour that I had first sighted him in as I was being led to my execution. His hair was tied out of the way and his helmet was already on; both served to harden the broad angles of his chin.

The sight of him stilled me. It was a reminder of the realities waiting for us outside of this moment, this place of peace.

"Have you seen Alvor yet?" he asked, his expression flat.

I shook my head, glancing hastily to my pack. It was getting full, but Alvor was my next stop, to see what he had in the yard that I might add.

Sigrid stood, picking up the leather that hadn't made the cut. "I'll put these away, and come out to see you off," she sighed to her nephew.

Hadvar nodded to her retreating form, then glanced at me. "You sure about this?" he asked. His eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly; a hint of concern, or even friendliness, pushing through his otherwise grim mask.

"Of course," I stood, smoothing away the creases on the front of my dress.

"It's your choice," he sighed. "Come on then," he leaned down, grabbed my pack and shouldered it with his own.

I opened my mouth to stop him, but he was half way across the room and reaching for the door handle. Frowning, I hurried forward, ducking around him with a bob as he held the door open for me.

The brusque morning breeze bit into my warmed cheeks and fluttered the apron-dress around my ankles. I clutched my arms around myself as our boots clapped loudly against the wooden floorboards toward the forge, keenly aware of Hadvar's presence directly behind me.

Far from having dismissed Dorthe's childish notions, I was shaken by the change to Hadvar's manner. Donning his armour had seemed to change him into a hardened Imperial Legionnaire, but even so; he had not been this distant when we had first met. His mind was clearly elsewhere; perhaps over what would await him in Solitude, or where he might be reassigned. Or perhaps he was worried about the dragon attacking Riverwood after he left? Far more likely.

Alvor was leaning over his workbench, shaping a piece of hide, but stood tall when we stopped by the forge. "From the looks on your faces, I take it that you're leaving?"

"Already?" Dorthe called out in dismay. I glanced around and spotted her sitting at the grind stone with a small, iron dagger before her.

I made an effort to smile as I turned back to the smith. "Very soon, yes."

"Celeste's taking a few of your pieces to Whiterun to sell, uncle," Hadvar offloaded my pack. "Is there anything out here you'd like her to take? Anything small? Her pack's nearly full."

"She's what?" Alvor seemed quietly shocked. His eyes settled on me in mute confusion.

My smile came easier this time. "It really would be my pleasure to do so. Your work is beautiful; I'm sure it'll fetch a decent price in the capital."

"I..." Alvor glanced around his forge uncertainly.

"What about the new silver work, papa?" Dorthe suggested. "That's very light-weight."

Alvor considered and then shrugged, and strode to a table on the far side with several completed pieces laid on it. He returned a moment later holding three pieces of _jewellery_.

"Will these do?" he held them out in his large palms, with a vulnerability to his tone. "They are my first attempts, but weigh less than leather. If you think you can sell them, you can take them."

I tried not to gape. Yes, Alvor most certainly _did_ have the soul of an artist. Of the three finely-worked silver pendants, two were set with smoothed river stones, and I traced my fingertip over the etched design on the third, flatter piece.

"They're perfect," I glanced to Alvor with an appreciative smile.

"I didn't know you'd taken to silversmithing, uncle?" Hadvar peered over my shoulder as I held them up for him to see. "They're quite fine, aren't they? They should sell to the Whiterun crowd," he murmured.

I agreed as I knelt and secured them in the top of my pack. "They'll sell to _any_ crowd. I have half a mind to buy them myself," I admitted. "Once I can access my account, that is," I added with an ironic tilt.

Alvor muttered something about spare time that I didn't catch, and seemed a little redder when I stood and gathered the straps together, swinging the heavy pack up onto my back with an 'oof!'

Hadvar's hands caught the pack, steadying it on my shoulders. When I turned to thank him, he had already stepped forward to his uncle, and held out his hand.

"I'll come home as soon as I'm granted leave," he told his uncle with a thickness to his throat.

Alvor's mouth flattened out, and he stepped forward, pulling his nephew into what looked like a bone-crushing hug. "Don't waste your leave, boy. We'll make do and you'll be home for good sooner."

I turned away, not wanting to intrude on their farewells, as Dorthe darted to her feet. Sigrid was hurrying along the verandah with her brow in knots.

I glanced out at the cool, grey day, wondering at the hour. The sun was hidden behind low, white clouds that filled the whole sky. Across the road, a hanging sign swung in the breeze, and a skinny woman wearing a yellow dress was sweeping the doorstep under it. It looked like the general store. I had planned to stop in there for clothes, but thanks to Sigrid, I no longer needed to.

"Here," she was beside me. I turned - glanced down. She was holding a paper-wrapped parcel out to me. "It's pie."

"Oh," I took it automatically, blinking in surprise. "Thank you. I didn't expect-"

"Enough," Sigrid waved her hand, then pulled me into a hug. "If you manage even half of what you've promised, you'll be doing us a great service. A bit of old pie is a weak form of compensation."

I smiled as she withdrew, and thanked her again. "You really don't mind if I stay a few nights, once I have petitioned the Jarl?"

Sigrid laughed. "Oh, we're _counting_ on it, Celeste," there was a twinkle in her eye that I hadn't seen earlier. "We can't disappoint Dorthe, after all. I believe she has plans to share her room _with_ you," she smirked, "to save you from Hadvar's room. Here, let me put the pie away for you," she took it again, and tucked it into a pocket on the side of my pack.

Bemused, I turned back to her when she stepped back. Her daughter appeared by her side, and the woman wrapped her arm around the girl, jostling her affectionately.

"Ready?" Hadvar spoke over my shoulder, appearing on my other side.

I regarded him with a frown. "Ready? Aren't we...going our separate ways?" Solitude and Whiterun were in opposite directions, and reached by different roads.

Hadvar pointed along the road north; the one I was to take. "I'll see you to the bridge on the edge of the village. The road forks there."

"Oh."

With a few more waves and farewells, Hadvar and I clopped down the stairs and left his home, and his family, behind us.

We walked in silence for a moment, bypassing the store and what must have been the village inn. I hazarded a few glances at the officer, uncertain of whether he wanted to talk about it - whatever _it_ was. He was unusually withdrawn, and I yearned to make the air comfortable before we left one another.

As we passed under the tall, open gateway marking the boundary of Riverwood, I bumped his arm with my shoulder.

"Are you okay?" I asked, smiling encouragingly.

Hadvar cast me a sideways smirk. "I'm fine," he replied evenly, which plainly told me that he was not. "And you?"

"And I what?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes – yes, I'm okay," I faltered, glancing to the road ahead. That hadn't worked. With a shaky sigh, I went for the direct approach. "It feels like you're...upset, that's all."

After a brief pause, he responded.

"As it happens," Hadvar admitted quietly, "I spoke the truth before. I don't like good byes."

Well - that made sense. Nobody liked leaving those they cared for. I had moped whenever father had been called away on Thane business for the High King.

"Better than _not_ saying good bye," I murmured as the realisation chilled me. "Better than not knowing you needed to..."

My throat grew thick; I glanced ahead, cursing myself. _Everything isn't always about you and your grief, Celeste._

I felt Hadvar's eyes on me, searching, but couldn't meet them.

"Sorry," I cleared my throat, shaking the tears away and attempting a laugh to dispel the gloom. "Is that the bridge you were talking about?" I pointed through the morning haze.

Hadvar didn't respond right away. "Yes. That's it."

Suddenly for his sake, as well as my own, I was determined to be bright. "When you think about it," I began conversationally. "A good bye is a happy thing. It lets you show those you love how much you will miss them. Then," I babbled, kicking a stone on the path in front of me idly, "you can travel with hope and anticipation of your next meeting."

Hadvar's melancholy seemed unshakable. "And what if there is no reunion? What if this good bye is the last?"

"Nobody knows when their last good bye will be," I met his gaze and faltered. Our farewell was imminent, and I wasn't certain anymore if he was upset about leaving his family, or worried about something else. "And if it is the last, then...Sovngarde awaits," I lifted my eyebrows to him.

Hadvar huffed a humourless laugh at the road, kicking a pebble in his way as we reached the bridge. "For some of us," he conceded.

Glancing at him - worrying at his low spirits - my resolve to drag him out of his sorrow hardened.

Our boots hammered out an uneven beat along the stone bridge, and I burst into song.

" _We drink to our youth, to days come and gone. For the age of aggression is just about done,_ " I sang merrily, despite the timbre of the words. _Age of Aggression_ was an old tale, but one that had been modified frequently by whichever bard sang it. The rhyming pattern allowed it to be easily updated with a word here or there to suit current events.

Hadvar stopped in his tracks. "You're not making this any better, you know;" his dry tone told me he thought I was mad.

I turned back and smiled, swinging my pack down to rest on the side of the bridge. " _We'll drive out the Stormcloaks and restore what we own. With our blood and our steel we'll take back our home,_ " I held my hand out pointedly, curtsying as though the song was an elegant dance, and not a bawdy tune sung in taverns Skyrim-wide.

"Celeste," Hadvar groaned with an edge of baffled uncertainty. I kept my hand where it was and raised my eyebrows in challenge.

His eyes narrowed, but he relented. The moment he placed his hand in mine, I sang again, and louder. " _Down with Ulfric the killer of kings. On the day of your death we'll drink and we'll sing!_ " I spun.

Hadvar laughed; "You'll bring the whole town down to the bridge if you keep this up."

"I don't care," I owned in a lofty tone. "If this is to be our forever good bye, then it will be a happy one."

With a laugh he held up his arm; my smile broadened and I twirled underneath. On my return he caught my waist, so I settled a hand on his shoulder with a flourish as though we were waltzing in the Emperor's ballroom.

" _We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives_ , a _nd when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us..._ " I drifted off, swaying to a stop. My chest swelled when Hadvar returned my smile, but when I glanced up, his eyes were still too sad.

Hadvar squeezed my hand. "That was unexpected."

"That's when music is at its best," I huffed. I'd puffed myself out with all my spinning and cavorting. "When it's unexpected," I squeezed back. I felt more settled than I had in weeks; singing, even just a little, had released some of my pent-up anxiety.

Hadvar laughed soundlessly with a rush of air. "Our time together has been nothing if not...unexpected," he murmured, lowering his head a little; his eyes watchful. "You must be music personified, the way you seem to have...danced into my life."

There was no ignoring the affection behind his quietly astonished words. Like a song, they reached me; tickled me; threatened to burst out as a childish giggle. Gratefully, the comfort of singing after so long, and the joy of dancing on this cool, cloudy morning with this kind soul settled my nerves before they took hold.

"Likewise," I breathed with a warm smile.

He seemed cheerfully perplexed; he crossed his brows and laughed once more. Detangling our hands, he brushed the hair covering my cheek back behind my ear.

"May I..." he faltered. He swallowed uncertainly then leant down, glancing at my lips and then meeting my eyes again. "Check something?" he whispered.

I nodded, transfixed by the faraway look in his eyes, unwilling to look away this time. My heart hammered a wild beat of anticipation and blood surged through my veins, blazing and _so alive._

With the slightest hesitation, he pressed his lips to mine.

They were soft and warm, and feather-light, posing a question, rather than demanding answers. A warm, bright relief filled me as the scents of leather and soap and stewed apples encircled me.

His fingers curled in my hair and his hold on my waist faltered. Hands flexed, grasped tentatively, then released; he was holding back.

Too soon, the hand on my waist tightened again, and he withdrew.

"Gods," his voice was thick and his eyes remained closed. He cleared his throat and shook his head. "I shouldn't have done that."

In a flash of dismay, I thought that he _regretted_ kissing me, but when his hold tightened, I smiled, giddy with relief. "Oh, I don't know," I hushed, made bold by the glow pounding in my chest. "It wasn't _that_ bad," I joked.

His eyes shot open, surprised. Leaning up on the toes of my boots, I kissed him; an unequivocal reply to the question his cautious kiss had asked. If this was to be farewell, then I would have him remember me by this kiss. It was slow and full of longing; good bye as defined moments ago, expressing the admiration I'd developed for him in the brief moment we had been part of each other's lives, and conveying my hope of a reunion.

Every grasp of his hands and shudder in his chest resonated within me like the beat of a drum. When I wound my arms around his neck it pulled a soft, yearning _growl_ from deep within his throat; a thrill trembled through me as he ducked a little and tightened his grip, tilting his head to deepen our embrace.

This attachment; it made no sense, but perhaps it didn't need to. We had barely known each other for a day, yet here we were, clinging to one another as the world spun by, desperate for answers to these reeling uncertainties about a future we might never live to see.

I might ponder the good sense of kissing a man whose surname I didn't know afterwards; try to convince myself it was borne of fear and uncertainty, or of being thrown together in strange and terrifying circumstances. But caught by the moment, my heart blazed and my thoughts centred on a single truth; _this is home_.

With a groan from deep within his chest that I felt as a rumble against my own, Hadvar finally withdrew. His hands flexed on my hips and he stared down in exasperation; his eyes dark with longing, more stormy than I had ever perceived them. "You kiss me like that," he managed through a laboured breath, "and expect me to walk away from you?"

I knew he had said something, but his lips; pinker and fuller and parted as he caught his breath, captured my attention.

"Hadvar," I had to shake myself to stop from staring at his mouth to respond. His eyes darkened when I said his name, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me again. Perhaps he intended to, but then his arm tightened around my waist, preventing us from leaning into each other.

I sighed. "Would you have preferred to walk away without knowing?"

Hadvar closed his eyes and made a frustrated sound as he pulled me close to him.

"I would prefer not to walk away at all," he cursed. "Damn this war!"

I relaxed against his chest. I could hear, _feel_ the thump-thump of his heart through his armour. Settling my palms on his broad shoulders, I closed my eyes and committed the feel of lying against him to memory. I felt as though I had known him for months already. And I wanted to know more. I could not walk away from _this_ forever.

"You said you would write to me," I reminded softly; being this close called for a more intimate tone. "After you've talked to the Legion about Helgen," I confirmed carefully.

I felt him nod; felt his arms adjust around me. "I will," he hushed.

"Then, why don't we...keep writing to one another?" I proposed. "If you have time, that is."

Hadvar tensed, and I lifted my head.

His eyes were on the bridge, but it seemed that he looked truly at nothing. Despite the pull to remain in his arms, I leaned back further, to see him better.

He glanced down and sighed heavily. "I will make the time," he resolved with a small, sad smile.

I eased back and nodded encouragingly. "I promise you, we will meet again."

Hadvar turned and leaned down to retrieve his pack, and I did the same; slinging it up. I felt - shaky, almost, and suddenly worried that I had made a fool of myself. He had not seemed that happy about the idea of writing to one another.

He adjusted his pack then approached, reaching out to help me settle mine so the straps rested evenly on my shoulders. His eyes drifted to mine when we were ready, and his hand stroked my cheek fleetingly. The gentle movement; the warmth in his beautiful grey eyes laid my concerns to rest.

"I wish I could promise you something - anything," he murmured.

I made myself smile and arched an eyebrow. "Just write to me. I'm not asking for any other...promises."

He nodded, glancing away, then motioned toward the bridge.

I fell into step beside him, and stared down to the bricks and cobbles in wonder. Had that been a dream? Had I blacked out and imagined the entire moment?

We walked in uncertain silence, stopping only when we reached the crossroads and faced one another.

"This is it," Hadvar spoke with false cheer. "Until the next dragon falls from the sky, Celeste Passero," he bowed his head.

"One thing, before you go," I remembered. I flushed when he met my gaze with his curious one.

I tried to hold back my laughter, lowering my eyes hastily to grin at the earth instead. "When I write, who do I address the letter to?"

Glancing up, I saw more confusion in Hadvar's features. My laughter bubbled out of me; he was going to make me ask it.

"I...don't know your family name," I admitted with a flush of embarrassment.

Hadvar laughed then, finally understanding.

His hand was on my chin; encouraging me to look up again. The laughter had reached his eyes, and his cheeks were as flushed as mine felt. "Reidarsson," he flashed me a cheeky, lopsided smile.

"Hadvar Reidarsson," I tested, nodding in mock greeting as Hadvar lowered his hand. "It has been a pleasure to meet you."

Unable to contain ourselves any longer, we shared a laugh before we wordlessly agreed to part, and turned onto our separate roads. We took them; our good bye not one of sadness, but of relaxed, mutual fondness.

* * *

 _A/n: apologies for the delay; my NaNo efforts consumed my writing time last month, then December rolled around and Celeste was there, beating against the (metaphorical) door demanding that I continue her story. She reminds me of Sarina (from TTLS) of course, but has this bold, demanding wilfulness that her ancestor didn't possess (that I like to believe is indicative of Martin, or the Septims in general, since she is their descendant as well). I wanted her out of Riverwood early this chapter, and in Whiterun, but the little brat insisted we remain in Riverwood and then she went and burst into song, and Hadvar fast-forwarded my plans for them and made everything that needs to happen all the more complicated._ _Don't you **love** it when your characters make you rework all your carefully laid-out plans?  
As an aside, Reidar is an Old Norse name that means 'nest, home' and 'warrior'. I took the artistic liberty of naming Hadvar's father Reidar, making Hadvar Reidarsson. Given his (headcanon) penchant for reading/writing, it makes me happy to name him this, too, as it literally sounds like 'reader son'._


	10. Meandering Whiterun

_Chapter 10: Meandering Whiterun_

As the day lengthened, the clouds dispersed, and the shadows shortened as the sun ambled across the clear, blue sky.

It shone brightly but created little warmth. I walked swiftly to keep the chill of the mountain trails at bay, leaving the established road to skirt through the woods whenever I neared structures, or even ruins of structures.

I had offered to walk to Whiterun alone, but I was not an idiot; Skyrim was littered with old forts that had become havens for those who did not wish to live under any rule but their own. Besides the fact that I was hopelessly defenceless, my pack was full of Alvor's armour and jewellery, and I didn't want it to be stolen.

So the walk was silent, and lonely; the occasional rabbit and fox my only companions, darting away at the sight of me. I didn't mind; I had lots to think about.

I was painfully uncertain over when I might see Hadvar again. For the start of my journey, the feel of his lips and hands were all I could think about. I would remind myself sternly, over and over, that the real, live, fire-breathing dragon in Helgen only two days ago should be at the forefront.

 _Hin sil fen nahkip bahloki._

I shuddered. There was something poetic about the dragon's words and the translation thrummed within me like an echo as soon as I recalled them; _Your soul will feed my hunger_. They were words that could move mountains and turn rivers that had flowed for a thousand years into steam in the space of a single breath. Words that, like Ulfric Stormcloak's thu'um, had power.

 _The thu'um._ How was I meant to learn anything about those words Stormcloak had used now, without the resources I had been relying upon in Cyrodiil? Perhaps once I had access to my money, I could buy a horse and try for my grandparents again.

 _Then Cyrodiil is still your goal?_

 _Yes_ , I answered immediately. Riverwood had been peaceful and _very_ diverting, but a show of kindness and a kiss had not cancelled out my resolve. My decision was not rash and thoughtless, borne entirely of remorse, after all.

 _It will just take as long as it takes to learn and use his words against him._

Idly humming _Age of Aggression,_ I crested the mountain path, and smiled. The song wasn't as bad as _Ragnar the Red_ , but I had never much liked it until now. I doubted I would ever think of it in the same way again.

I stared down at the valley below. A vast, yellow-grassed tundra was laid out before me, bordered by tall, jagged mountains, snow-capped and blued with haze in the distance. Whiterun rose like a beacon in the centre of the plain, with Dragonsreach, home of the Jarl, towering above the settlement of steeply-angled rooftops. The grey-stone of the wall curled around the city like a snaking river, protecting it from the outside world in the distance. I was nearly there.

 _Down with Ulfric the killer of kings. On the day of your death we'll drink and we'll sing,_ I thought, as I hummed and began my descent.

 _So. We're singing again_.

"Yes," I replied resolutely to myself. I hadn't even thought about _not_ singing with Hadvar, and it had not reduced me to a blubbering mess when I had done it. On the contrary; it had been a relief. I would not stop myself from making music again.

A crisp, determined breeze pushed against me, making my descent the slowest part of my journey, but I didn't mind. I had not been to Whiterun before, and enjoyed drinking in the sight of the place my father had told me about.

I smelled Honningbrew Meadery before I passed it; honey, apple, and something rubbery; a mix of both pleasant and not so pleasant aromas. There were working farms beside it. Only one had a mill, and the rest were fenced-in patches of dirt where fur-clad workers toiled with hoes and rakes.

None of the workers paid me any mind, and I reached the stables before anyone spoke to me.

"When they turn you back, lass, remember that I'm here for you."

I turned, frowning, finally noticing a man atop a carriage. It was a public coach; empty, and the driver looked grizzled and bored.

I shook my head. "Thank you, but I have business in Whiterun. Why would they turn me back?"

The coach driver shrugged. "Nobody's being let in. Some folk saying it's to keep the Stormcloaks out," he glanced to the horizon, searching. "Others saying it's because of the dragon that attacked Helgen a two-day ago," he arched an eyebrow. His gaze settled back on me, gauging my reaction.

I bit my bottom lip and glanced toward the main gates. I would have to talk my way through the gates, as well as address the Jarl. The coach driver made it sound as though what had befallen Helgen was not widely believed.

"I must...try," I muttered to him, adding a hasty farewell as I set off again.

The lesser gateway arched over the road into the city, but access was clear. It was manned by a pair of yellow-clad Whiterun soldiers, both holding horse-sigil shields. They were in conversation about a bounty the Jarl had recently issued.

I avoided eye-contact and feigned nonchalance. What if the Empire, or the Stormcloaks for that matter, put a _bounty_ on me?

 _Get over yourself,_ I commanded. I may have been a prisoner of both armies for a time, but I was _hardly_ their priority. If the bounty the guards talked about was mine, they would have noticed my approach.

I dug into the neck of my dress and withdrew the Passero seal; it was time to be seen, and this might be my fastest way into the city, if father's familiarity with the Hold could lend me merit. The large ring settled front-and-centre on my chest and I brushed my fingers through my tangled hair. I winced as the windswept snarls tugged, and quickly plaited the mass of dark brown, despite the knots.

The road angled sideways then under another tall, arched gateway, and the main gate swam into view. It was closed and flanked by three helmeted Whiterun guards.

I took a steadying breath, and smiled warmly. _Show time._

"Good afternoon!" I called merrily, stopping in front of the guard with the ring of keys on his belt. He was a huge man, towering at least three heads above me, wearing a pair of battle axes at his hip and a Whiterun shield strapped to his back.

Through the slit in the helmet level with his mouth, the guard sighed. "Before you waste your breath trying to buy your way in, Whiterun is closed to outsiders," he spoke in the heavily-accented tones of a native central Nord. "I'm sorry, you'll have to go back where you came from, girly."

I maintained my smile, pleased that the coachman had warned me. "So I have heard it said, but I must seek an audience with the Jarl nonetheless," I insisted. "I am certain if you mention my name to him, or his housecarls, Jarl Balgruuf will admit me."

We had caught the attention of the other two guards; their heads swivelled to regard me.

I kept my eyes on the tower before me, wishing I could see his expression; his eyes, anything.

"And that name would be?" he asked in a flat tone.

"Celeste Passero, daughter of the late Samuel Passero of Haafingar, Thane of the late High King Torygg," I announced.

The guard huffed; the air hit the metal in front of his face with a rasp. "I don't care if you're the daughter of the late High King himself; we have orders to keep outsiders like you out of the city. The coach is by the stables," he lifted a gloved hand and pointed. "If you're a noble lass, you best pay your way home. Skyrim isn't safe for those who can't defend themselves."

A flash of anger rippled under my skin, despite his presumption being true. Taking a deep, calming breath, I squared my shoulders. "I understand. Perhaps you will let me appeal to your better nature?" I asked pleasantly. "I am unarmed," I added needlessly.

"Maybe we should let her in, Trilar," one of the other two called from across the way. "Better than having her disappearance on your conscience, eh?"

The one before me tilted his head. "Scouts and messengers don't carry blades. And that's an _awfully_ full backpack, for a Thane's daughter," his tone grew more calculating.

"Ah, good," my heart hammered, but I maintained my poise; if this was a performance, he was just a heckler. "You have noticed my package; leather work from Riverwood, to barter with on behalf of the smithy there, Alvor. I approach Whiterun not for my own gain, but for the people of Riverwood."

The voice behind the helmet sounded confused. "What would you know of Riverwood?"

"More than you might expect," I countered respectfully. "The village kindly offered me shelter in the wake of the attack on Helgen, where I was-"

" _You_ were at Helgen?!"

"On my parent's souls, I swear it," I continued swiftly, making the most of his attention. The story of Helgen wove through my mind like a ballad, instead of a horrible, fiery memory. "And it was within Helgen that I bore witness to the dragon that assaulted the township, hurling fire from the skies. A soldier saved my life," I added with a pause. "But when we escaped, we saw the great black wyrm again, soaring into the high mountains above Riverwood. I must be allowed to stand before the Jarl, on behalf of those who gave me sanctuary."

The guard turned to look at the other two. I wondered what message was passing between those full-faced helms, for none of them talked. When he faced me again, he gave a long, weary exhale.

"You spin a pretty tale, girly," his hand fell to the ring on his belt. "If you were at Helgen when it fell, you'd better go straight up to Dragonsreach. Farengar will figure you out."

I masked my grin of victory with a bow of gratitude; "Thank you. I will."

The gates of Whiterun were unlocked, and I righted the straps of my pack and stepped through. As soon as I was inside, the gates were relocked behind me, and couldn't help but startle as the lock clanged and clicked.

 _It's all right; you're in_ , I thought with relief.

The guard had told me to go straight to Dragonsreach, but I wanted to lighten my load first. It would also give me an opportunity to speak to a shopkeeper, who might be able to arrange a line of credit for me and, with the right authorisation, allow me access to my accounts.

I glanced around Whiterun with interest, understanding at once why father hadn't minded traveling here. It was a _very_ pretty place. The road before me was cobbled, but worn smooth, leading over a small bridge spanning a brick-lined, crystal-clear stream of water. The road forked after the bridge. The left ascended to what seemed to be an expensive residential sector; large houses with pretty gardens, though none were half the size of Proudspire Manor. The wider main street that continued forward was lined with shops; a smithy to the right, an inn to the left, and beyond, a well in a courtyard, and an open-air marketplace. _Charming._

The bustle of people going about their business echoed off the high walls, and I stepped out into the throng. Just below the bridge, I noticed a woman wearing a blacksmith's apron, speaking to an animated man wearing Legion armour. With the weight of Alvor's wares heavy on my mind and shoulders, I veered toward them. Spotting an expertly-made iron sign hanging from the shop that named it _Warmaidens_ , I understood that this was the _other_ smithy Sigrid had spoken of. What was her name again - Aveny? Aveno? Neither sounded right.

She was an Imperial - tall, slim, bronzed and beautiful, despite the ash caked on her cheeks and through her hair. How had she become a blacksmith in a central Skyrim hold? Her confident poise spoke of something higher.

"It doesn't matter how much gold is on offer, Idolaf, I can't fill an order that size," the woman said matter-of-factly as I came within hearing range. "Why don't you ask up at the Skyforge-?" she continued.

The man in Imperial leathers – Idolaf – growled. "I'd sooner kneel before Ulfric Stormcloak," he crossed his arms stubbornly. "Our Empire needs every one of us right now, Adrianne – you can't _all_ pretend that we're not at war – you _must_ pick a side. Grey-Mane has chosen his."

"You know as well as I that Jarl Balgruuf wishes to remain neutral," the woman shook her head. "And picking a side has little to do with my answer. The war could be on our doorstep and I would be telling you the same," she insisted. "Can't draw blood from a stone."

 _Perhaps it isn't wise to step into the middle of this._ I glanced away, inspecting the steel plate items hung up outside the shop. They were generic as well – perhaps to deter thieves, or perhaps there were simply no custom orders being filled these days. I lowered my pack and rolled my shoulders as I glanced over a display rack, which contained only two swords and six empty spaces.

Adrianne and Idolaf exchanged words for a little longer, and eventually the smith conceded that she would see what she could do.

 _Alvor could fill the rest of that contract,_ my mind prodded.

 _Keep out of it,_ I countered sternly. _You have your task. Complete it before you go interfering in everyone else's business._

I warred with myself as the smith's footsteps drew closer. _Should_ I mention Alvor? It was clear she was on the side of the Legion, whether their Jarl wanted to remain neutral or not. If this Adrianne was willing to work with Alvor's shop, they could meet the contract _and_ bring much-needed funds to Hadvar's family.

Before I could angst any further over a decision, Adrianne stepped under the awning.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she addressed me in a voice oozing confidence. "I'm Adrianne Avenicci, the smith here at Warmaidens. Looking for some armour? That one might need adjusting to fit your frame."

I smiled graciously at the woman. "Actually, I am selling, if you are interested. I carry leather and silverwork from a smith south of here in Riverwood, by the name of Alvor."

"Alvor," Adrianne's manner shifted slightly as she looked me up and down. "I know of him. Looking to expand his client base, is he?"

"Perhaps," I murmured carefully and shrugged, kneeling to unstrap the pack. "The war has caused so many unexpected expenses for hard-working families both inside and outside of the cities," I withdrew the necklaces; lay them carefully on Adrianne's workbench, before returning to the pack to extract a set of leather bracers and a few helmets.

"That is has," she muttered distractedly. I glanced up; her eyes were flitting over Alvor's work.

 _Good._ "There's more of course, back in Riverwood," I stood, resting my hands on my hips as I regarded the samples. "Iron and steel, weapons and shields. But I could only carry so much. Do you think you could move this along?"

Adrianne said nothing, picking up a pair of bracers. She traced the stitching and rivets with a long fingertip, then replaced it with a sigh. "Not the jewellery – you'll have better luck passing those on to Belethor, down by the markets," she advised. "But we can deal on the leather. I might actually have an immediate buyer for those."

"So I heard," my lips curled. Adrianne turned swiftly to see what I meant, and I flashed her a wry half smile. "Sorry. I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with the Legion officer."

Adrianne rolled her eyes and returned to vetting Alvor's work. "Well. We _were_ carrying on in the middle of the street. Sorry about that."

My smiled persisted. Here it was; a genuine opportunity to suggest they work together. "We might be able to help each other, actually."

Adrianne hesitated; her sharp eyes met mine. "This Alvor of yours might be willing to help me meet the Legion's contract?" she guessed. When I nodded, she added; "For what price?"

I couldn't say. _Was_ I doing right, speaking for him in this way? "I shall leave that between the two of you, if you don't mind," I evaded. "I'm just the messenger."

Adrianne 'humphed' and switched back to the matter at hand. "I'll take it off your hands for 400 gold. Don't have much cashflow at present."

I frowned. "I'm under instructions to settle for no less than 600 for the leather. Oh well!" I pipped brightly. Sigrid had warned me of this; that the shop keepers would try to shortchange me, and I had to be prepared to leave at once if they did. She wanted 500 gold, and I was going to do my best to better their expected price. "Perhaps it was not meant to be," I reached out and began packing Alvor's wares away.

Adrianne made a disgruntled sound, and put a hand on my arm. "All right, all right. Perhaps I didn't look closely enough. Set them out again."

The system was an elaborate game, wasn't it? Playing my part, I obliged and stepped back.

"Would you take 450?" she frowned at an arm bracer seam, clearly trying to make me doubt its quality.

I tilted my head. "I don't think so," I shrugged. "But it's no bother. If the Legion are looking for leatherworkers, it won't be long until they find Alvor. His nephew is in the Legion, so he's sure to mention him when he gets back to Solitude."

She sighed this time. "You've Imperial in your blood, don't you girl?"

I raised my eyebrows knowingly and said nothing.

Adrianne rolled her eyes. "Play it your way. 550 for the lot – but," she stared me down, "I need you to use those speech-craft skills to convince Alvor to fill thirty-percent of the Empire's contract, okay?"

I grinned and offered her my hand. "I'm returning to Riverwood once I deliver a message to Dragonsreach. There shouldn't be any difficulties."

"Dragonsreach?" Adrianne shook my hand, her tone interested. "You couldn't do _me_ a favour, if you're bound there?"

I agreed; I liked this tall, canny woman who might be key to changing Hadvar's family's fortunes. She asked me to bring a sword to her father, who was a steward up at Dragonsreach, who would in turn present it to the Jarl as a gift. After I emptied my pack of Alvor's work and replaced the necklaces to sell later, Adrianne withdrew a box from under the workbench. With a few twists and turns of the complicated lock on its front, she withdrew several pouches of gold, relocked it, passed them to me, and then told me to wait while she brought out the sword.

She returned almost at once; it must have been just inside the door. She was quiet as she handed it over. It was a slender piece, made of dark steel and wound with sturdy leather around its hilt. The pommel had been shaped into a horse's head – the familiar sigil of Whiterun.

I made a show of looking down the blade; holding it up with both hands as though I knew what I was doing. I knew nothing of iron and steel, but it was a nice sword and the detail on the pommel spoke of dedication to her Hold, and loyalty to her Jarl.

"Strong lines for a strong arm," I waxed poetically, handing the sword back to Adrianne.

"Someday," she turned away, wrapping the sword in hide, "my steel might be as sought after as Eorlund Gray-Mane's. If the Jarl accepts this sword, that day may come sooner," she finished, subdued. "My father will find the right time to give it to him."

I praised the workmanship of the sword some more, intrigued. Over the course of two days, I had managed to meet two blacksmiths who wished not merely to shape steel and move it along. Alvor and Adrianne's styles would work well together, and given their interest in the artistic side of smithing, they might even become friends.

But I was getting ahead of myself. Relieved that I had achieved one of my two goals, I took the wrapped sword up in both arms and asked for directions to Dragonsreach. Adrianne suggested I take the faster route through the Cloud district – the residential sector I had noticed before – so I wouldn't be waylaid in the marketplace. Thanking her, I took my leave and promised we would talk again soon.

The Cloud district reminded me a little of home, in that the houses were neat and expensive. That was where the similarities ended; these were all thick wooden pillars and flaxen roof tiles, with criss-crossing beams carved in a variety of designs to decorate; from elegant knotwork to hideous faces. The street was clean and the gardens were in good repair; encircled by low, dry stone walls covered in plush mosses.

In the midst of the dwellings was the temple; devoted to the worship of Kynareth from the looks of the medallions hanging over the gateway. A pair of priestesses walked from the building and stepped onto the road ahead of me; their brown robes and yellow scarves fluttering in the breeze flowing between the tall buildings like a river through a valley.

The road curved again and at the end of it stood a magnificent tree; its bare boughs angled up, glowing white in the midday sun. It was clearly dead, though still quite a sight. I didn't wonder that the Jarl had not organised to have it removed.

The priestesses in front of me stopped; stared up at its empty branches. As I passed by, one of them sighed and murmured something about a dream she'd had, where the _Gildergreen_ had been alive and flowering.

"But you were once man! Aye! And as man, you said, ' _Let me show you the power of Talos Stormcrown, born of the North, where my breath is long winter. I breathe now, in royalty, and reshape this land which is mine!_ '"

My focus was swiftly drawn to the hoarse cry of a man who seemed to be ranting about _Talos_. I caught sight of him standing on a small knoll beyond the tree, his arms raised as he preached to nobody.

" _I do this for you, Red Legions, for I love you._ "

I glanced away just as hurriedly with a flush. Why hadn't the Jarl at least moved _him_ along? If the Thalmor knew about this, they would see him executed.

Beyond the raving man was what looked like an upturned ship, and I did a double take. Glancing over the curve of the large, long building, I recognised it as the home of the Companions of Whiterun. It had been said that, long ago, before Whiterun had been established, the Companions had moved the ship that had carried them from Atmora to this place and turned it into their shelter. It was strange to see it with my own eyes; I had thought the story too romanticised to be completely true.

Dragging my eyes away from the overturned ship - well, the Companions' home - I ascended the stairs before Dragonsreach and tried to dash all I had seen and heard from my mind. I needed to focus.

Dragonsreach loomed above me like a mountain. It was built in a similar fashion to all of the other buildings of the city – or perhaps all of the other buildings had been constructed in sympathy to this one. At the top of the stairs was a tall, open concourse forming a bridge over a deep moat. There were carved wooden pillars either side, arching up like ribs of some great creature arranged in front of the main doors. The carvings were so weathered that the faces depicted at the joins were barely discernible as faces at all. Beside the walkway, Dragonsreach was encircled by pillars sharpened at their tips. They looked like recent additions; the exposed wood was still fresh. They were certainly serious about security here, weren't they? Was this extra fence on account of the Stormcloak rebellion?

My boots clopped against the boards and the sound echoed off the stone wall beyond. I nodded greetings to the Whiterun guards I passed. Some nodded in response; others muttered brief hellos, and some said nothing at all; their helmets following me as I moved on.

I was fairly confident they wouldn't stop me. The Jarl would be in session at this time of day, and the door to a Jarl's house was always open. Besides, carrying Adrianne's sword made me look more the messenger, and they were allowed _everywhere_.

The front doors to Dragonsreach were tall and carved, open just a crack. I pushed my shoulder into the gap to widen it, and one of the nearby Whiterun guards jangled to my side to help. Thanking him with a nervous smile, I stepped into the darkened interior and my footsteps were muffled by a fine, woollen rug travelling the length of the long, dark hall.

I looked up, and kept looking, until I felt as though I would fall over backwards if I kept trying to see where the ceiling stopped. Dragonsreach was _immensely_ tall, and the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow before I could make out its top.

"I know those eyes."

Closing my mouth with a snap - I had been gaping - I turned. There was a bored-looking Nord woman in her thirties lounging beside the entrance, wearing generic steel armour over furs tufting out around its edges. Her black hair was swept into a braid on one side of her face, feathering around her cheek on the other.

"Are you lost, little one?" the corner of her mouth tilted. Her accent was not as pronounced as a midlander; the lilt only there in a trace. She seemed bored, from the dullness I found in her emerald eyes. _A housecarl_ , I deduced. Mercenaries wouldn't hang about the Jarl's home.

I shook my head resolutely. "I'm bringing this to Adrianne Avenicci's father," I flushed, realising I hadn't asked for his name. "And I have a message from the people of Riverwood, for the Jarl."

"Ah, a busy bee," she smirked, waving further into the great hall. "Proventus is your man – he's with the Jarl, you can't miss him – the anxious fellow wearing the dark blue robes. And," she turned back; her eyes flickering over me in an oddly familiar manner. "Don't let Irileth scare you off," she tilted her head in amusement. "She's a mite jumpy today. The Guard keep bringing in reports of dragon sightings from the mountains."

My heart leapt into my mouth. Was I too late? Had the dragon already razed Riverwood?

Faltering, I glanced toward the Jarl's throne, where he took court. There were figures at the end - I could tell from this distance only by the long shadows they cast. The hearth before the throne reflected a myriad of warm oranges and yellows about the hall between us.

I turned back to the forthcoming woman. "Do you know anything of the dragon reports?" I asked carefully.

She winced a little. "Nothing of Riverwood, if that's what concerns you," she drawled. "Beyond the watchtower, all accounts of this _dragon_ seem to focus on Helgen."

My relief shuddered out of me as a sigh and I nodded my thanks. If Riverwood had been attacked, there _would_ have been a report of it by now. But if the dragon _had_ been sighted, perhaps it had spoken to the guards - perhaps they were jumpy because it had told them what it was going to do.

"Did...the dragon...say anything?" I asked carefully.

" _Say_ anything?" the woman cast me a wry look.

"I mean," I fumbled for recovery, lifting my chin, "in the reports. Did the Guard say anything about what the dragon wanted?"

The look the woman gave me - caught between confusion and amusement - made me flush at the clumsiness of my words.

"No. Those reporting mentioned nothing of conversations with dragons," the dryness in her tone made my flush double. "You'd better go deliver your message, little one."

"Thank you," I muttered, turning away as I clutched Adrianne's sword to my chest.

 _You'd better do better than that with the Jarl._

I felt the woman's eyes following me as I walked away. My heart thudded, keeping time with my steps as I hastened toward the Jarl's throne.

The heat from the hearth pushed against me like a hand as I approached the cluster of people at the end of the hall. Tables lined the walk, though were entirely empty of both people and food; lunch must have finished already. I hesitated as the delicious smell of roasted potatoes and chicken wafted toward me; glancing to my left, I spied a bustling kitchen. I thought longingly of the pie Sigrid had given me and wished that I'd thought to eat before I'd come up to Dragonsreach; food might have steadied me. If I was honest, the group at the far end of the hall seemed so engrossed in their discussion that they probably wouldn't care if I sat at one of the long, empty tables and ate it now.

 _Stop stalling,_ I commanded.

I pushed on. There were four figures at the end of the hall. Jarl Balgruuf was easy to recognise; tall and strong and thoughtful, reclining in his throne as his piercing blue eyes focused on the man before him; a tall Imperial with little hair on his head, wearing dark blue robes and talking earnestly. This must have been Adrianne's father, I reasoned. Beside the Jarl stood a man cloaked in robes the colour of ash. His hood was raised, casting most of his face in shadow so only the tip of his nose and the grim curl of his mouth caught the hearth light – the court mage, I assumed. My eyes drifted to the fourth of the party, and I startled back. The Dunmer woman in leather armour had her red eyes set on me in a glare, and her hand was resting menacingly on the hilt of her sword. She was like a coiled snake, about to strike.

 _Irileth_ , the woman by the doorway had called her. This must have been Irileth. Swallowing my fear, I planted a calm, eager expression on my face and met her gaze. Mercifully, my bard's training took control of my outward appearance.

While the three men ignored my approach, the Dunmer stepped toward me, her judging eyes lingering over my parcel. "You approach Jarl Balgruuf with arms?" she questioned sharply.

I held the parcel down and out, praying that by doing so she would catch a glimpse of my father's ring. "This is for Lord Avenicci," I lowered my eyes respectfully. I wasn't sure if he had a title or not, so adding one couldn't hurt. "It's from his daughter. I approach the Jarl with my own two arms in earnest, on behalf of his people in Riverwood."

Irileth puffed air through of her nose; what passed for amusement, I supposed. "Plucky. Proventus and the Jarl are busy, but you can leave the sword with me, and tell me your message. I'll see they are both delivered."

I bit my bottom lip, wondering how I might draw the Jarl's attention to me. "As you wish," I glanced hastily toward the throne, then back to Irileth, modulating my tone so that she might not tell that I had raised it. "I was in Helgen when the dragon razed the village-"

"Did you say, _in Helgen_?"

I reigned back my smirk; I had caught one of them, at least.

Irileth turned back to the men by the throne. All three were staring at me, now, though Jarl Balgruuf seemed unfazed by what I had said.

It had been the court mage who had spoken. I glanced toward him, wishing I could see his eyes through the shadows of his hood.

"I was," I spoke, hazarding a step forward. Irileth didn't stop me; merely crossed her arms and sighed impatiently.

I took this as a sign that I could continue. "I saw the wyrm with my own eyes as it landed on a watchtower and rained fireballs from the sky."

Silence met my words, and finally Jarl Balgruuf sat up a little straighter. "Do I...know you? Come here, girl, into the light."

 _Thank you,_ I mentally sighed with relief. "At once, my Lord," I hastened to the lowest step, stopping beside Adrianne's father, and dipped into a curtsy; no mean feat, given the sword still in my arms. "I am Celeste Passero."

"You may rise, Celeste Passero," the Jarl murmured easily.

When I glanced up, he was motioning for me to come closer. Hastily turning toward Proventus, I wordlessly offloaded the parcel into his arms.

"What-?"

"You're Samuel's daughter, are you?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.

"Yes, that's right," I stopped on the top step before him. I glanced upward hastily; a dragon's skull, rumoured to be an _actual_ skull of a dragon and not simply a work of art, glared down at me.

I averted my eyes from the hollow-eyed skull, back to the Jarl. His eyes flickered over father's ring before they lifted and searched mine.

"You have his eyes," he muttered in quiet astonishment.

"So I am told," I conceded.

He sat back as though he hadn't expected this, but resettled swiftly, resting his chin thoughtfully on his hand. "I was very sorry to hear about what happened to your father, Miss Passero. I trusted him as though he were my Thane. I can see his manner about you, now I know he's there," he changed the tone of conversation swiftly, shaking his head a little as he sat straighter. "Tell me what you saw in Helgen. I have heard too many versions for my liking."

"As you wish," I spoke quietly. I took a measured breath to ease my racing heart; his kind words about my father threatening my calm. "Ulfric Stormcloak was caught and being led to his execution, overseen by General Tullius of the Legion," I laid out the facts for him; the Jarl did not appreciate wordy displays. "The dragon landed on the watchtower and screamed at the sky. Clouds formed and turned scarlet, and began raining molten balls of rock down on everyone, regardless of the colours they wore."

The court mage shifted in the corner of my vision. When the Jarl's eyes flickered to him, I also turned to check his response.

"Speak your mind, Farengar," the Jarl prompted.

The court mage lifted his head, though not high enough for me to see his eyes. "Did it not _breathe_ this fire you speak of?" his accent was strong - he must have hailed from the far north before he came into the service of the Jarl.

I shook my head resolutely. "Not at first," I explained. "First there were fireballs from the clouds. _Then_ it breathed fire, but only when it said _Yol Toor Shul_."

I suppressed my shudder as the words _fire inferno sun_ echoed through me.

Farengar snorted in disbelief. "Who told you those words?" he asked rudely.

I crossed my brows at him. "Nobody told me anything. It heard it, plain as day, from the dragon's mouth-"

"Impossible," the court mage turned to Jarl Balgruuf dismissively. "Dragon shouts are indecipherable to the ears of both man and mer. The only exception would be the Greybeards themselves, or-"

Balgruuf held up his hand for Farengar to pause, and the court mage complied at once.

My mind reeled and raced in the heavy silence. Had I been... _alone_ in hearing what the dragon had said? And - moments ago, hadn't the housecarl at the entrance been unimpressed, sarcastic even, when I had asked about what the dragon had _said_?

"Continue if you will, Miss Passero," the Jarl commanded evenly with a hint of intrigue. "But if you are making up stories, Farengar will know."

"I...on my father's honour, I am telling you the truth, my Lord. Have none of...?" I faltered, paled; looked helplessly between Farengar and the Jarl. "The other reports," I fumbled swiftly; cleared my throat. "In the other reports, has no one mentioned that the dragon spoke?"

"None," Farengar confirmed bluntly.

I flinched. "Okay..." I accepted quietly. I gripped the front of my dress; a doomed effort to keep calm as I searched the shadows of his hood. "Was I not supposed to understand it?"

"Certainly _not_ -"

"That depends," Jarl Balgruuf cut the open-mouthed Farengar off with a calm rumble, flashing the mage a hard glance. "Under certain...circumstances, others have been able to understand and speak the language of the dragons," he drawled. He and his mage shared a weighty glance.

Their gravity scared me, and I searched for a way to draw our conversation back to its intended course.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand how it's possible that I did," I admitted. "And - Helgen is not why I am here."

Jarl Balgruuf leaned back more comfortably on his throne, as though the silent look he had shared with Farengar had settled some matter between them. "Then you had best tell me your real message. What you didn't mean to tell me has created stir enough," he motioned for me to proceed.

I nodded, relieved. "I'm here on behalf of the people of Riverwood. A family there fed, clothed and sheltered me, after Helgen. But before I reached Riverwood that fateful day, I saw the dragon soar over the mountains above the village," I tried desperately not to mince my words, but it was more difficult in the wake of their knowing looks. I yearned to spin a fantastic tale; to distance myself from what I'd experienced.

Taking a steadying pause, I lowered my tone in an effort to quiet my muse. I couldn't detach from _this_ story; it had really happened. Alvor, Sigrid and Dorthe were counting on me to get this _right_.

 _"My contract prevents me from staying and protecting them myself."_

And - _Hadvar_ was relying on me to take care of them.

"They are a village of good, hard-working people, my Lord," I swallowed the lump in my throat and pressed on. "Their homes are wood and their roofs are thatch. Should the dragon descend, they will not stand-" my breath hitched. I paused, blinking back swift tears.

 _No weeping,_ I commanded. _They're alive yet._

"What would you have me do, Miss Passero?" the Jarl asked in a mindful rumble. "If the Imperial Legion were no match for this wyrm, what chance will my men stand against it?"

Another deep breath and I felt calmer; lifted my chin. "The Legion didn't know about the dragon. We do. Your men will be far better equipped to meet a dragon than the men, women and children of Riverwood will on their own," I posed.

"So, you _do_ want me to send soldiers," he grimaced, casting a knowing glance Proventus' way. "And it will not be long before the other towns are asking for assistance, too," he turned to his court mage emphatically.

"I assure you my Jarl, I am _working_ on it," Farengar inclined his head.

 _On what?_

The Jarl shook his head and sat forward; his frustrated eyes settled on me again. "All right, Miss Passero. I'll send a legion to join those who patrol the region, on the condition that you remain in Whiterun to relate the whole of your tale to Farengar. In particular-" he added, speaking up as Farengar tried to butt in, "these words that you heard the dragon speak."

His eyes were hard and piercing, and a force within me growled; impatient and offended. I shoved it down; gripping my dress tighter; my hands shook. _He is sending aide to Riverwood._

"Thank you," I curtsied graciously. "Of course, I am happy to remain in Whiterun for as long as I might be of service, my Lord," I agreed politely.

 _Write a letter to Alvor and Sigrid_. I couldn't outright refuse a Jarl's request when he had bent to mine. They would understand.

"Excellent," he sounded brighter, friendlier, and when I rose, his eyes shone mischievously. It was a look that strangely suited his weathered, aging face, and I felt brighter all at once.

The corner of my mouth lifted, and I turned hastily to the court mage. "Do you want to talk about it now?" I asked directly.

Farengar shook his head. "I have some reading to do this afternoon. Call on me first thing in the morning. My office is through there," he motioned toward the right of the hall.

Turning, I squinted and made out the form of a desk in the gloom beyond an open archway.

"Irileth, a word," Balgruuf murmured.

When I turned back, I understood that our audience was over. The Jarl was on his feet, and on the move, motioning for the Dunmer to follow him.

"But," I stammered, though evidently not loud enough for either to hear me. Glancing between the retreating form of the Jarl and his housecarl, to the court mage, I managed; "What do I do now?"

Farengar smiled secretively. "I suggest you secure accommodation for the night. There are several inns in town that might suit you, Miss Passero. Now if you will excuse me – I have books to consult before our little chat," he departed for his office.

When I remembered that I had money in my pack - from the deal with Adrianne Avenicci - the constriction in my chest eased. I could pay Alvor and Sigrid back whatever I had to use. "Yes, of course," I murmured in farewell. "Until tomorrow, then."

"I look forward to it," he called over his shoulder.

He disappeared into the adjoining chamber; after a pause, a warm glow flickered across his desk. I crossed my brows as the shadows in his room lengthened, but before I could wonder for too long about what he expected of me, someone settled by my side.

It was Adrianne's father; the wrapped sword still in his arms.

He sighed, and his eyes were on Farengar's office as well. "Celeste?" he confirmed with a small, regretful shake to his head. "Samuel spoke of you, and your sister, when he was with us. I recall that he missed you keenly."

My smile was bittersweet as I imagined father sitting with Proventus in the hall, both discussing their daughters. "I miss him every day."

"Very good," Proventus didn't really seem to be listening. He held out the parcel in his arms. "And this – it is from Adrianne, yes?" he confirmed.

I nodded, wishing I could shake the melancholy as swiftly as he seemed able to. "She asked if you might pass it to the Jarl, on her behalf."

He _hmmed_ , but chose not to elaborate; his eyes adopting a faraway glaze.

Clearing my throat, I took a step toward the exit. "I suppose I should be going."

"Try the Bannered Mare, dear," Proventus called idly as I retreated. "Your father stayed there, if I remember correctly."

I thanked him without stopping. A strange weight settled about my shoulders. I had achieved what I had set out to do, but I felt flat, and my task seemed far from over. Perhaps it wouldn't feel complete until I was back in Riverwood?

I was about to step out of the great doors of Dragonsreach when a slender hand fell to my arm from the shadows.

"You're Thane Passero's daughter?"

I turned to face the woman who had spoken to me in the entryway earlier. Her slim fingers closed about my wrist urgently, and her green eyes were wide and bright with tears.

I twisted my arm gently so she would release me. "I am. Did you know him?"

She nodded, letting go as a smile lifted her entire face and she laughed, shaking away her tears as she held the hand out to me instead. "I _knew_ I recognised those eyes. I'm Lydia," she introduced.

"It's always nice to meet one of father's colleagues," I shook her hand dutifully. "How did you know him?" I asked bluntly. Rather unfairly, suspicion wound its way into my tone. This woman, this Lydia was younger than my mother and _very_ pretty, despite looking like a sellsword. If she had been close enough to father to notice his eyes then maybe-

Lydia laughed again, letting go of my hand as she threw her head back. "Oh, don't look at me like that," she shook her head in amusement. "I was assigned to be his housecarl, each time he came to Whiterun," she owned. "Since he brought none with him," she added with a half-shrug.

"Oh," my eyes widened. Why had I assumed the worst? "I'm – sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did," Lydia cast me a knowing, sideways smirk. "But I forgive you. He _was_ a very good-looking man, and had he _not_ been married I would have-"

"Lydia!" I hushed, scandalised, glancing around swiftly to be sure nobody had heard. "You're talking about my late father!" I reeled.

Lydia clapped a hand on my shoulder in a comradely fashion, and I jumped. "And we shall meet him when Sovngarde takes us," she sighed, calming. "I mean no disrespect. I am..." she hesitated, considering. "I'm truly sorry for your loss. I do not manage grief well, I'm afraid."

"It's all right," I replied graciously. I could hardly give lessons in grief management myself. "It was nice to meet you, Lydia, but I must be going. I need to secure accommodation for the night," I glanced toward the door; took a step away.

"Of course. If you're bound for the Bannered Mare, watch out for Mikael."

The dryness in Lydia's tone made me take pause. I turned back, and waited for the woman to explain.

With a glance at the empty hall around her, Lydia shrugged and stepped beside me. "Come on. I'll take you. The sight of me might scare him off."

She pushed open the doors. I blinked and shielded my eyes with an arm as the afternoon sunlight washed over us.

"Who's Mikael?" I asked carefully as I fell into step beside her. An uncomfortable itch crept under my skin and I tried to shrug it off. I had heard that he had taken up position in Whiterun, but surely she couldn't mean the _same_ Mikael...

Lydia's distaste was evident. "He's the Mare's resident bard," she drawled, unimpressed. "Blonde git, fond of the lute, thinks himself _quite_ the ladies man. More of a public nuisance if you ask me," she grated.

I groaned, lowering my head into my hands as we walked the concourse over the moat. It _was_ the same Mikael.

The Mikael who had tried to woo every female student at the Bard's college. The very man whose behaviour had steeled the rest of us against pursuing romantic interests within the college, to remain professional towards one another.

The Mikael who had stolen my first kiss, before I had understood what he was made of. I had barely turned sixteen when I had entered the college, and despite it being widely known that the men of Solitude were not at liberty to court my sister or I until we had graduated, he had pursued me.

"Ah, I see. You already know him," Lydia resolved quietly.

I nodded, though couldn't bring myself to uncover my face.

"Did he-?"

I shook my head swiftly; if she didn't ask, I wouldn't have to imagine it. An ironic laugh bubbled out of me. "He...tried. I figured out pretty quickly that he thought me only a challenge to be conquered."

Lydia made a disgruntled sound.

Relieved that Lydia had warned me of the roguish bard's residency, I decided that I didn't wish to navigate around him if I could help it. If he was still on his personal quest to bed as many women in Skyrim as possible, he might want to _reminisce_ with me. I stopped and turned to Lydia, pleading, "There are other inns, right?"

She nodded, though didn't seem all that pleased. "The Drunken Huntsman. But its full with permanent residents," she cast me a supportive look. "The Mare is not so bad. Don't worry, little one."

"I'm not worried," I flushed. We continued on our way, descending the steep stairs toward the bleached-white Gildergreen. "I'm annoyed," I resolved.

And truthfully, I was. Annoyed that I had agreed to remain in Whiterun; annoyed that the court mage had not interviewed me straight away about Helgen so I might leave; annoyed that the Jarl had not offered to accommodate me in Dragonsreach; annoyed that I would need to navigate my way around Mikael over the course of the night. I tried to shake it off, and wished that I could go back to Riverwood instead.

"Rightfully so," Lydia mused thoughtfully.

I glanced to her. She was staring at the Companion's home; the top was visible over the wall from the stairs.

"Remind me; are you the daughter who is the bard, or the mage?" she asked idly. Her eyes remained on the overturned ship.

"The bard," I supplied suspiciously.

Lydia turned to me then, all smiles. "Then you _might_ have another option," she motioned toward the ship. "The Companions don't like magic, but they might let a wandering bard entertain them for the night in exchange for food and board?"

I frowned at the building, considering. "But, my lute was destroyed..."

Lydia clapped me on the shoulder; again, I startled at the overly-familiar gesture. "You have your voice. From what Samuel told me, it is all the instrument you need."

I glanced at her; taken back by such...faith in my abilities, from a woman I had just met. What had father told Lydia?

She grinned at me; gave a little sideways nod. "What do you think? Want to plead your case to Jorrvaskr before resorting to the Mare and Mikael's lecherous ways?"

"To _where_?"

"Jorrvaskr. That's what they call – it doesn't matter," Lydia waved at the upturned boat.

A smile played on my lips as we resumed walking around the great white tree. The raving man was still standing above it, still shouting about Talos. Lydia completely ignored him, so I did the same, focussing instead on where I had heard the name of the Companions' hall before. I recalled swiftly - of course - _Jorrvaskr_. It had been the name of the ship that had carried Jeek of the River and his men to take Saarthal, before they had journeyed south to settle by the Skyforge.

"I would feel _much_ better knowing you were being kept watch over by Kodlak Whitemane than the likes of _Hulda_ , Mikael or no," Lydia muttered.

"Who – what? Lydia, I'm nineteen, I don't need _watching over_ -"

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Lydia flashed me an apologetic glance and stopped half way up the stairs that led to the ship – _Jorrvaskr_. "Old habits," she added with a sigh. "I can go back to Dragonsreach, if you'd prefer?" she offered with a sideways glance.

I lifted my eyebrows at her and shook my head. "You may do whatever you wish. You're not my housecarl," I reminded her with a poke to her arm. It was _solid_. "But, as for tonight," I turned back with a sigh to Jorrvaskr; glanced over the cracked wooden beams of the roof - ship. "Perhaps it _would_ be best to talk to this Kodlak about a show in exchange for a bed."

I wouldn't have to dip into Sigrid and Alvor's funds, if the Companions took me in for a night.

"There's hours until nightfall, anyway," I continued, waving toward the sky; it was only mid-afternoon. "If this doesn't work, I can resort to the Bannered Mare. It's only for one night, after all."

"As you like," Lydia gave a bow and fell into step behind me when I continued up the stairs.

The double-doors looked ancient; heavily carved and lined in dark iron, with stain thick in the creases. I reached toward a curling, wrought-iron handle, and the sound of a _crash_ and a _thud_ sounded from within. I stilled, glancing up; my breath hitched. More sounds of struggle came. And - wait - _cheering_? I quirked a brow. What was going on?

Pushing the door open and peering inside, I spotted a Nord woman and Dunmer man brawling in the large, open hall. Nobody seemed interested in stopping them. Several of the onlookers were, in fact, egging the pair on; the source of the cheers.

Lydia stuck her head in over the top of mine and snorted in distaste. "Perhaps the Mare is not so vulgar an option."

I shushed her, praying that she'd not been overheard; I did not want them to turn on _us,_ particularly if I was to attempt to find work here. "Brawls are common enough in taverns, too. This is just another potential job," I convinced her; convinced myself.

Lydia grumbled a reply but whatever she said was lost to the _crack_ of shattering wood. The Nord had thrown the Dunmer onto a side table and hit him in the stomach; a strike that had splintered the wood beneath him.

"Allrightallright - yield! I yield, Njada!" the mer gasped for air, then coughed, doubling over and grasping his stomach in what looked like severe agony.

"Milk drinker," the Nord's lips curled back and she bared her teeth; snarled at him. She was _fierce_ , all hide armour and war paint, with the whitest-blonde hair I'd ever seen and lithe arms rippling with muscles as she cracked her knuckles. "Now give me my money," she demanded.

Lydia's light touch to my arm brought my attention back to the task at hand. I glanced away from the pair, rallying my courage as I approached the nearest onlooker.

She was an Imperial woman in her twenties with kind eyes and hair as dark as mine, but cut short, fastened at her temples in Nord plaits.

"Excuse me," I hushed, not wanting to draw the attention of the _entire_ room. "Could you direct me to Kodlak Whitemane?"

She turned to me, and her grin faltered as her eyes met mine. "You...?" she looked me up and down uncertainly, then her eyes flickered to Lydia in confusion. "...want to speak to Kodlak? Do you mean to join us?"

The woman's question _did_ draw the attention of a few of the other Companions, but they didn't interrupt. On the other side of the room, Njada raised her voice, and some of the pairs of eyes left me.

"Ah, no," I swallowed my fear and held my chin up higher, rallying a smile. "I am seeking employment for the night, and wish to offer my services as a bard."

"Oh!" the Imperial laughed heartily. "I see. That'd be a nice change - a while since we've had a bard in here," she turned and waved toward a set of stairs that led to a lower level. "Down there, through the doors, and all the way to your right."

"Thank you," I bobbed, hastening away. I was curious about the elaborate carvings and expensive-looking wall hangings within Jorrvaskr, but I didn't linger; I could do that tonight, if they agreed to my terms, while I performed. I _did_ glance over the other Companions, while I had a brief opportunity to, though. Most of them were more interested in Njada and the Dunmer's conflict than my arrival, though a stern-looking older man on the sidelines with a shock of grey hair watched us; his arms crossed and his narrowed eyes following Lydia as we moved along.

I averted my eyes and bit my bottom lip, uncertain of why _Lydia's_ presence might cause trouble. Were housecarls not allowed in Jorrvaskr? Did I really want to find out? She was only here on my account.

From the landing, I turned to her hurriedly, checking with a quick glance if the old man was still watching her. He was.

"I should take it from here, Lydia," I smiled, not wanting to cause her alarm, or she might _never_ leave me. "I am well equiped to handle negotiations on my own. Unless that is - you want to sing _with_ me?" I quirked an eyebrow. " _Can..._ you sing?"

Lydia had looked concerned to begin with, but laughed at the close. "They would pay me not to. All right, little one. I understand," she smiled in good-humour. "You come up to Dragonsreach and find me if anyone gives you trouble, all right?"

I nodded, half turning, intent on descending. "I will. Thank you. Father would have..."

I paused, wishing I hadn't said anything the moment the words left my mouth. Lydia's smile fell.

I sighed and turned away, glancing down the stairs. "He would be pleased to know that someone was looking out for me," I finished quietly.

"It's no trouble," she dismissed evenly. Her boots tapped against the floor boards as she stepped away. "Not like I have anything _else_ to do," she added in a mutter.

I glanced after her. Had she meant for me to hear that?

She crossed the hall and left Jorrvaskr, without hesitation. I frowned after her. Lydia had taken it upon herself to see me to Jorrvaskr, out of what? Respect for my father? Or boredom?

While I wondered over the woman, my eyes drifted to the hard-eyed old man who'd been watching her. His eyes were on the door she had left through. He smirked, then relaxed, then started talking to the man on his left; a fearsome-looking bald warrior in heavy steel armour. The pair shared a laugh.

My heart fluttered anxiously at the prospect of _sleeping_ here.

 _It's one night_ , I reminded myself with a dismissive shake to my head. I descended the stairs, and the walls either side somewhat dulled the noise from above. _Sing, sleep, wake and return to Dragonsreach. Pester Farengar until he asks what he needs to know. Go back to Riverwood. Simple._

At the bottom of the stairs, I checked myself briefly. My hair was a mess of knotted braid, and I untangled it hastily, easing my fingers through the larger snarls to make it presentable. With a quick pinch to my cheeks, and a small bite to my bottom lip, I smoothed my dress down and pushed open the door. I was ridiculous; somehow, I was more nervous about approaching Kodlak than I had been about going to the Jarl of Whiterun!

 _But nerves are good_ , I reminded myself. I could use them to turn on the charm, and be the bard that I had trained to be.

* * *

 _A/n: so glad you enjoyed their 'moments' last chapter, Cake-san ;)_


	11. The Men of Whiterun

_Chapter 11: The Men of Whiterun_

The lower level of Jorrvaskr was quiet and still; eerie almost, when compared to the clamour upstairs. I found myself in a long, neat hallway, containing several smaller hallways which I assumed led to sleeping areas, for even the mighty Companions had to rest their heads somewhere.

Recalling the Imperial woman's instructions; _all the way to your right;_ I turned. Two figures sat at a table at the end of the long hallway in quiet discussion, in stark contrast to the bawdy scene taking place above them.

The doors clicked shut behind me, and the muted conversation stopped. Two sets of eyes turned on me.

I smiled and strode toward them, focussing on the older of the two men. The younger sat back and crossed his arms, but I paid him no mind. I set my sights on and prepared my words for the fair, bearded older man with the bearing of a warrior and the eyes of a scholar. I did not need to be told that this was Kodlak Whitemane.

"Good afternoon," I swept into a traditional bard's bow a few paces from them.

"And what manner of wind-tousled creature is this, swept into Jorrvaskr on the afternoon breeze?" Kodlak asked with any easy warmth.

His tone calmed me; made me feel welcome. I glanced up, unable to mask my gratitude, then rose to my full height. "Apologies for bursting in on you, Master Whitemane. My name is Celeste, and I have been led to believe that the Companions may be interested in exchanging my services for food and lodgings."

In the corner of my eye, the younger man shifted uneasily. He might have said something, but the older man shot him a swift glance.

"Many seek out the Companions under similar pretence, but few prove to be worthy," Kodlak replied as his gaze settled on me again. "Come closer," he beckoned. "Let me look at you," his voice drifted off thoughtfully.

Confused, I took another step forward. "As you wish," I murmured.

His silvery eyes met mine, awash with a gleam like moonlight through a lake, and I felt myself being measured.

"Now, there's an old soul," the corner of his mouth rose.

 _No wonder bards don't come by the Companions very often._ I fidgeted, glancing briefly to the man by Kodlak's side to distract myself from Whitemane's sudden intensity.

The younger Nord was large, but not as hulking as the men upstairs had been, with lank, black hair pushed behind his ears and dark warpaint around his eyes, making them appear more sunken and fiercer than I thought they really were. He was scowling at his leader but there was a hint of something else there. Confusion? Dismay? I couldn't decide. He settled back into his chair when he noticed I was looking at him; though still he said nothing.

"This is your family's sigil?" Kodlak brought my attention back, reaching for the Passero seal.

I nodded, lifting it out to him; letting him take it. "Yes. It was my late father's ring, and has been in my family for several eras."

"It's a dove," he muttered, glancing up to me. "You're a Passero. Your father was Imperial? I took you for Breton."

I nodded, wondering at all the questions, and a little surprised he had recognised the family connected to the design. "You are right on both accounts. My mother was Breton, my father Imperial. But, I am a daughter of Skyrim; I have lived in Solitude all my life."

"I see," he released my ring gently; sat back. "Well, Celeste, you wear your spirit on your sleeve, and it is one that will soar, given the right support."

I quirked an eyebrow at this riddle, but before I could determine a response, he continued.

"Perhaps you can loan some of that spirit to our halls."

That sounded like an agreement, though was still wrapped in a riddle. When I tried to thank him, I was cut off by the dark-haired man sitting across from him.

"Master, perhaps now is not the right time to be taking in outsiders," the words burst from him in a heavy Nord accent; he seemed unable to contain himself any longer.

I startled; stared at him with widened eyes. His silvery, sideways glance made me shiver with doubt.

Leaning toward his master, he added, "There is plenty of work to be found at inns or in private contracts-"

I didn't like the way he spoke about me as though I wasn't there, and intervened.

"I would rather work here, if it is all the same, and if your Master agrees," I cut him off smoothly. I couldn't let him talk Kodlak out of giving me the job. What did it matter to him if I sang a few songs for his fellows? He didn't have to stay and listen.

The old man shook his head. "I am nobody's master, young ones. And we have empty beds aplenty for those with fire in their hearts and souls."

I flushed at his words; this _was_ a compliment, though I wasn't certain how he had determined any of this by simply glancing over me and my family's ring. "Thank you. I won't disappoint you."

"That remains to be proven," Kodlak leaned back with a weary stretch of his neck. "Vilkas, I would have you take young Celeste upstairs, and test her form."

I baulked; my unease escalated. "My _form_?" I stuttered.

The younger man – Vilkas – begrudgingly rose to his feet as though I hadn't said anything. "All right, master," he grumbled.

"Wait – there's been some mistake-" suddenly, I realised why the conversation had been so confusing. "You think that I wish to _become_ a Companion?"

Vilkas and Kodlak exchanged an odd glance. Something passed between them, and Kodlak settled back further into his seat, nodding for Vilkas to proceed.

"If you do not, then what is your purpose here?" Vilkas asked in that growl of his.

Did he always sound as though he was ready to tear a person's ears off for looking at him? I tried not to laugh, but surprise and relief bubbled out of me. "I'm a bard, not a _warrior_ ," I held my hands out, placating. "I would make a _terrible_ Companion. Perhaps I might begin again."

I was met with silence. Turning away, I took two paces, a deep breath, and spun back to face them, sweeping into the bard's introductory bow once more. They mustn't have recognised it, when I had first done it.

"Hello! My name is Celeste," I said brightly, rising to address them. "I humbly offer my services – of singing, and storytelling – in exchange for a bed for a single night, and breakfast on the morrow."

Kodlak was chuckling by the time I finished, and Vilkas huffed, crossing his arms and maintaining my gaze, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Was that all the show of amusement I was likely to get out of him?

Apparently so. The serious fellow remained standing, and I wondered why he had taken over my negotiations. Was he Kodlak's second, perhaps? Maybe I _should_ have paid more attention to him when I had entered, instead of judging him to be insignificant to my plight.

It was Vilkas who responded. Kodlak's mouth was firmly closed, though his eyes shone, creased at the corners; a trace of restrained mirth.

"A wanderer, eh? Jorrvaskr's not an inn, lass," Vilkas tilted his head. "You'll have better luck at the Bannered Mare," he nodded down the hallway. Signalling that it was time for me to leave, I supposed.

It honestly didn't feel as though he was refusing me; merely making me work for my position. I didn't want to beg, yet wondered if it was what he required? Surely not. I just needed to be firm; convince him that I wanted to be here. I smoothed the desperation out of my words with a small smile.

"I have it on good authority that the Mare already has a bard, and it is my deepest wish," I lowered my head and voice respectfully, "to avoid him at all costs," I murmured, hoping to encourage some manner of chivalry in the surly brute, if not his master. " _If_ you take my meaning," I glanced at Vilkas, praying to whichever Divine might be listening that I wouldn't be forced to explain _this._ Mikael was the sort of man whose reputation would precede him, so proud of his _conquests_ he was.

Vilkas' eyes flashed in realisation and he stood a little taller, regarding me with less gruffness than before. "I take your meaning," he assented in a quiet rumble. He uncrossed his arms and waved a hand toward me. "And what sort of bard travels without her instruments?"

My mind raced for a plausible excuse. I didn't want to mention Helgen; the conversation in Dragonsreach made me wary of mentioning it again to anyone, until I understood what Farengar and Jarl Balgruuf had told me. Or, hadn't told me.

And truly, if I wanted to offer a performance worthy of the legendary Companions, I would need to procure an instrument of some kind. Lydia had been kind, but my voice was _not_ all I would need, or my performance would lack greatly in both atmosphere and diversity.

Perhaps the general store, or someone in the marketplace, would be selling a lute. Surely Whiterun was a large enough town that someone, somewhere would be selling musical instruments?

Taking this chance, I smiled as though I was pleased he had noticed. "It's being cleaned, in town," the words spilled out of me. "My journey here was long, and both it and I require some attention before we are fit to be stared upon. Shall I retrieve it, and return here?" I prompted, lifting my eyebrows.

The large Nord sighed and the corner of his mouth twitched again, as though he wished to smile, but wouldn't let himself. "All right. Yes, we have an accord," he emphasised, settling into his seat next to Kodlak. "Be back in the mead hall by six. That's when we take dinner."

I nodded, assuming that the mead hall was the name of the large, open room upstairs. "Six. I'll be ready," I curtsied gracefully to take my leave. I would have to act quickly to secure an instrument in time, and then there was the matter of tuning it properly, if I happened to locate a lute.

"Should you change your mind about the lonely path set before you," Kodlak spoke a little gravely, "a bed can be made available to you for more than a single night, and your shield-siblings would willingly teach you that which you feel you lack in physical strength, if you decide it is time for you to acquire some."

My lip curled up in amusement, and I cast the brooding Kodlak a glance. My eyes flickered to the staunch-faced Vilkas. The doubtful expression on his face almost made me want to agree, to spite him; but I had more important matters at hand, and honestly, I simply didn't _want_ to.

I shook my head, addressing the more agreeable leader kindly. "Thank you, Master Whitemane, but I do not wish to fight," I backed away, lifting my hand in polite farewell.

"What we desire and what we must achieve do not always align so easily, little dove," Kodlak sighed, raising his hand in acknowledgement.

No more was required of me, so I turned and moved away, mulling over the poeticism of Kodlak's words, and the musical quality to his voice. He could have been a bard himself; seamlessly winding wisdom and metaphor in that relaxed, natural manner.

 _Also, you just won the job._

I dismissed my musings with a swift shake to my head. Yes! I had done it!

Now all I needed to do was locate the instrument I had told Vilkas was being cleaned. I still had Alvor's necklaces to sell, and after my success with Adrianne, I was confident that I would be able to both secure a good price for them, and retrieve an instrument of some kind from the general store. Perhaps if the Companions were moved by my performance, they'd offer a tip, and Alvor and Sigrid would never need to know that I had temporarily dipped into their funds.

With a spring to my step and my immediate needs taken care of, I ascended the stairs to the mead hall and left Jorrvaskr; paying what remained of the rowdy upper-level group no mind as I made haste to the marketplace.

They would not be my problem until the hour of six, after all.

–

" _How_ much?"

"Lutes don't come by all that often, darling," the shopkeeper, a Breton man called Belethor, tilted his head and half-frowned in a practised manner. "Least, not of this quality. They're 200 gold apiece, non-negotiable."

I narrowed my eyes at him. He was swindling me. "I can assure you that the quality is _not_ as fine as you profess it to be, and furthermore," I added quickly, "you have _three_ of them. They are practise instruments; barely fit for _real_ performances, at least by anyone with an _ounce_ of training to their names."

Belethor shrugged and held up his hands, mock-frowning even more. "Hey, I'm not twisting your arm to buy one, sweetheart. I'm just telling you what they're worth to me."

Even I was surprised by the frustrated growl that left my lips in a snarl. "Practise lutes cost _one-tenth_ that in Solitude!" I turned, offended. I was getting nowhere, and made for the exit. "Good luck selling them to anyone who knows anything about music."

I slammed the door behind me before Belethor had responded, and stepped out into the brusque afternoon air and warmth-less sun. I leaned against the store, breathing deeply, trying desperately to calm down before I hit something.

I felt hot; enraged; my blood was boiling. I closed my eyes, trying to listen to the sounds of the marketplace and not my own internal, furious monologue. My heartbeat thumped through my ears, slowing as my calming technique gradually grounded me, and the fury abated. I listened; there was a deal taking place at the game vendor's stall; a high then low pitch of a conversation between the old lady selling silverware and a little boy; the uneven tap-tap rhythm of someone scuffing their boots against the ground idly a few paces from where I stood.

 _You forgot to sell the necklaces,_ I reminded myself bluntly.

I bit my tongue. Someone in the marketplace would buy them.

 _And you didn't ask about organising a line of credit to your account back home._

I cursed; my eyes flashed open. A sad-looking blonde man was watching me, leaning on one of the pillars supporting the general store's awning. I nodded a tight-lipped good-day to him and turned away. My eyes flickered around the marketplace, praying that somebody – anybody – would be selling instruments of some kind.

The shopkeeper had been so smarmy, and so self-assured of a sale when I had walked into his store, that I had been immediately put on guard against him, before we had begun 'negotiations'. Only the sight of the three practise-lutes, hanging high on his back wall, had convinced me to remain in his presence, for as long as I had been able to bear.

 _And then you shouted at him and stormed out of his store like a spoilt child._

 _He deserved_ _it_ , I grit my teeth. It would be fine.

Glancing at the old lady selling silver across the way, I grimaced. I could sell Alvor's necklaces to her, but I didn't have time to play the bartering game these merchants all seemed determined to uphold any more. I had an hour, or thereabouts, to locate a lute, tune it, and get back to Jorrvaskr. Surely _somebody_ would have _something_ I could use; I would just have to be more resourceful.

My eyes drifted beyond the silver stall to the permanent building behind her.

 _The Bannered Mare_.

I glanced over the hanging sign, realising with a start; _Mikael will have a spare lute._

I groaned, bringing my palms to my forehead. After dragging my hands down my face, I noticed an uncertain little girl had come to a stand-still before me, mid-play.

"Are you unwell, milady?" she asked in a quiet, lilting accent.

"I'm fine," hastily, I lowered my hands. "Sorry for startling you. I ate something funny for lunch," I glanced back up, fixing on the one place in Whiterun that I _really_ didn't want to go.

The helpful little girl pointed out the alchemist's store to the side of the markets, then ran off again.

I didn't respond as she was gone. With a steeling puff of air, I pushed myself forward. My boots dragged along the cobbles and I glared at the closed, carved door leading into the tavern.

 _Be professional,_ I schooled, pushing the door open. Warm air and conversation rushed out to meet me, bursting past to dance with the sounds of late afternoon. The rumble of voices, smell of ale, and glow of the central hearth seemed to absorb everything when I side-stepped inside. The door clicked closed behind me.

My distress abated. The Mare was quite a pretty tavern. The tap room was open and welcoming, and the smiling patrons and waitresses all seemed to be having a fantastic time. Were it not for the resident bard, who I couldn't see from the entryway, I could have happily taken a room here for a night.

 _Just as father did._ A shiver ran down my spine. He had stood where I was, not so long ago.

 _Get to work._ Yes, there was no time to wallow in grief. My eyes flit about, searching for my target. It was the work of a moment to find him, sitting along the far side of the room, tuning his lute.

I sidled to the bar and ordered two snowberry juices from the hard-eyed, soft-cheeked publican. I was singing within the hour and facing Mikael any moment; I couldn't risk a glass of wine, and I couldn't remember what he drank. The woman passed over two wooden cups wordlessly, then returned to her previous customer; a Nord woman with short red hair. They appeared to be in the middle of some rather serious negotiations about ownership of the tavern.

Turning, I sighted Mikael again. He was still tuning, and in idle conversation with a heavily-muscled, dark-eyed Nord woman wearing a full set of expensive steel armour. The woman had to be a mercenary, perhaps offering herself for hire from this very tavern. Why else would anyone wear armour in the common room?

I sighed as I regarded the blonde man, recalling the scandal that had resulted in his expulsion. The Dean involved had lost her husband and resigned her position. That had been when Dean Ateia had returned, to fill her place as a favour to Master Viarmo.

"Mikael?" I stopped beside the table he and the mercenary sat around.

For all of my avoiding him and nerves, I was not prepared for the utter disinterest in his gaze when he lifted his head.

"Yes?"

 _What were you expecting?_ I blinked, glancing to the mercenary as she shifted back in her seat; her steely glare convinced me to look away at once. Remembering that I was holding it, I held the snowberry juice out to Mikael. "A word?"

He tilted his head, regarding the cup in confusion as he continued to idly pluck the strings of his lute, so softly that from where I stood, I could not make out the melody.

"Do I know you?" his dark brown eyes narrowed slightly.

"Stop it," I murmured, reaffirming my offering with a nod toward it. "It's snowberry juice. I find it helps lubricate the vocal chords before a performance– ," faltering, I shook my babble away, wanting to hit myself for using a word like _lubricate_ in Mikael's presence. "Anyway. Can we talk?"

"All right," he threw the mercenary an apologetic glance. "I won't be long, Uthgerd my love."

 _Ah_. He was working his _talent_ on this Uthgerd woman. Well, she'd probably clobber him into Oblivion if he put a toe out of line, so perhaps it was for the best.

Stepping away, I cast about the Mare for a suitable place to retreat to. Somewhere out in the open, I prayed. There were a couple of vacant tables on the other side of the room, and I made my way to them.

Mikael sat after I had; slowly, purposefully, placing his lute gingerly on a third chair between us. "Celeste Passero," he glanced up to me; the corner of his mouth lifted. "I did _not_ expect to see your delicate curves gracing the likes of the _Bannered Mare_ ," he murmured.

Of _course_ he knew who I was; indignation flooded me. Clunking the cups on the table, I pushed his toward him and wrapped my fingers around my own.

 _You need his help,_ I reminded myself before I could snarl at him. _Mess this up and you'll have to go back to Belethor. C'mon. You can do this._

My cheeks flamed but I inclined my head; a small, shy tilt that I knew Mikael would find appealing. "I didn't expect to be in Whiterun either. It's left me in quite the quandary," I sighed.

His smirk grew into a grin. Mikael lounged back in his chair then took a sip of the juice. "That doesn't sound like you, but time has a way of changing us," he echoed my sigh.

"Indeed," I continued quietly. His sigh had been so _false_ , and I was so wary of him that I was at a loss for how to ask for assistance. Out of nowhere, I teared up and found myself saying, "Doubtless you have heard about my parents?"

 _Don't_ _ **cry**_ _, for Shor's sake!_

Mikael's brow furrowed, and he frowned. "Your parents?"

I nodded, swallowing my tears. How could he not have heard? "Killed by Stormcloaks," I managed, "on the night of the High King's murder."

"Murder?" Mikael's confusion deepened, then he shook his head and half-laughed. "The High King was challenged by Stormcloak to combat over the right to rule. It's the way of the Nords, not murder, Celeste," he frowned sympathetically at me. "I know it must be difficult for you to understand, given your heritage. I'm sorry to hear that your parents were caught up in it," he took another nonchalant swig of his juice.

My knuckles turned white and my nails dug into the hard wood cup as I glared at Mikael under my lashes. _That_ story was still being circulated; there were still people who thought that Ulfric had conducted himself with a _shred_ of honour?

Fury burned through my veins, demanding I use it; to lunge across the table, and strike him.

 _Calm down,_ I pleaded, lifting my cup to my lips. My hand shook as I sipped, and when I swallowed, my control returned.

"Anyway," I murmured, clearing my throat. "It is in the past. As it happens, I've managed to secure a contract with the Companions tonight, but my lute has been damaged. Would you be able to loan me one of yours?" I asked directly.

If he wouldn't help, then I could leave. I would pay Belethor his 200 gold, and I would prepare as best I could with a practise instrument.

Realisation struck Mikael, and he nodded swiftly. "Of course, of course – anything for a fellow bard. I have a few spares in my room," the corner of his mouth twitched.

My expression levelled.

"Would you...care to select one?" he stood, offering me his elbow as he flicked his hair back. "You can take your pick."

 _Don't go to his room._ I stiffened and motioned toward the lute on the chair between us. "What about this one?" I reached, brushing its neck idly. Glancing up to Mikael, I didn't miss how he watched my fingertips dancing over his lute, or the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

 _Okay,_ I smiled sweetly. Perhaps, somehow, I could play _him_?

The thought gave me power, and the furious force within me stirred and swelled. "It such a fine instrument; finest I've seen in years. The lines are..." I looked to the lute, searching for a word. "Captivating," I settled.

Perhaps he guessed what I was doing; an amateur, trying to dupe a master, at least in the art of innuendo. He smiled at me, but it was a dangerous, tight-lipped curl of his mouth. His eyes narrowed in a sultry manner and swerved to lock mine. "You could convince me to part with my beloved for a single night. But the price," he tilted his head, his gaze unfaltering. "Would be you. For a single night."

I withdrew my hand from the lute as though it had burned me.

"You cannot be serious!" I hissed as my cheeks flamed.

He leaned forward, across the table, his eyes hard and his words fast. "Without your father interfering in your life any more, there's nothing to stop us-"

 _Smack._

I didn't realise I had slapped him until the red haze obscuring my vision cleared and I saw the red welt forming on his cheek. He hurriedly raised his hand to cover it, and I hastily withdrew mine, planting it firmly in my lap.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he asked dumbly.

"With _me_?" I stood, fuming; glared down at him. "How _dare_ you?"

His shock morphed into realisation, and he leaned forward, thunking his head on the table. "Oh, Shor's balls, you're still a virgin, aren't you? Honestly, Celeste, how can you call yourself a bard if you're yet to experience-"

"That's _enough_ ," I grated, cutting him off through clenched teeth.

Mikael lifted his head, just far enough to look up at me through his lashes. His eyes were full of _understanding_ , as though he knew _everything_ about me. His chin was so close to the table top that I barely resisted the urge to slam his head into the wood.

Then a small, scandalised, frightened voice within me desperately begged that I stop being so violent, and leave.

I listened to it, spinning toward the exit. Realisation dawned on me as I met several pairs of eyes; we had drawn quite a bit of attention.

There was nothing for it. At least nobody here knew who I was; with luck, they would forget the encounter by sunup. Steeling myself against the curious gazes, I forced myself to walk, not _run_ , from the Mare.

Belethor's store was in my direct line of sight across the marketplace. I glared at it, out of options, and time. I would have to give the smug git his 200 gold for a _practise_ instrument, and it _burned_.

 _Better than the alternative,_ I huffed wryly. I felt deeply mortified and furious over Mikael's implication; that my ability as a bard relied on _anything_ but dedication and training. I had seen and felt so much more than that little man, and he was so incredibly _wrong_ to challenge me, and find me wanting.

 _Control,_ I schooled. The afternoon had worked me up into a veritable frenzy of insulted anxiety. I would have to let it all go so I could prepare for my performance.

–

"Ah! You've returned. I thought you might."

I placed 200 gold on the countertop, staring with humourless eyes at the smirking Breton on the other side.

"Give me a damned lute," I muttered.

* * *

 _A/n: thanks again for reviewing, Cake-san! I love Whiterun as well and I'm so relieved that you think I did its introduction justice. This chapter was a little more difficult to write - with some more well-known characters, but I'm hoping that I managed to portray them half-decently...would love to know what people think._


	12. Perspective and Liberty

_Chapter 12: Perspective and Liberty_

The sky had purpled by the time I left the general store. Not only had I acquired the ridiculously expensive lute, but this time I had remembered to ask about credit and access to my account in Solitude.

Belethor had become more amiable after I'd made a purchase, though naturally, he had his limits. The sleazy man's disinterest in any plight but his own reared its head when he told me credit was being given to nobody on account of the war (I _hmphed_ but was not surprised), but he'd also assured me that he would send my request to Solitude on the evening post, and estimated I would be granted access by return letter the following evening, or the day after at the latest.

I leaned against the door, staring at the changing skies, relieved that _that_ mortification was over. Tiny flecks of ice on the breeze tickled my cheeks, and the cold did much to extinguish my lingering vexation. I heard footfalls from within the shop; a key turned in the lock. It seemed I had been his last customer for the day.

A sudden gust of sharp, freezing air pushed me; ruffled my skirts. I clutched the lute tightly, which I could not see as _mine_ , lest it be blown away and dashed to pieces moments after purchasing it.

As the gale abated, I glanced out to the horizon. The sun had set below Whiterun's walls, though its light still touched the tops of the buildings, washing the roof tiles with an attractive burnt orange.

I drew in a breath at the unexpected, striking sight; it seemed as though the city was lined in pure gold. My eyes watered as I watched the sunlight glittering over the rooftops, and I wondered how this small, central Skyrim town could provoke me to feel such potent emotions - some good, and some not so welcome.

Stepping out from the shelter of the store awning, I made my way across the marketplace; my destination the Gildergreen. I had seen bench seats around it earlier, and despite the nearby Talos worshipper, I fancied it might be a suitable place to eat the meal Sigrid had provided, and prepare for my performance, given its proximity to Jorrvaskr.

The very tips of the Gildergreen were lit up by the sun's last rays, making the whiteness look fiery orange, while the rest of it had already accepted the creeping purpled shadows of twilight. I glanced up to appreciate what it was, and wondered at what it must have once been, before I offloaded my very light pack, placed the lute carefully beside it, and rustled around in the side pocket to locate the wrapped parcel from Hadvar's aunt.

 _You owe them 210 gold,_ I reminded myself as I unwrapped it. _And a letter, if the Jarl and his court mage detain you for longer than a few days._ I didn't want Alvor and Sigrid to think I had _stolen_ their leatherwork and made off with the profits, after all.

Carefully biting into the salmon and leek pie, I savoured the taste - it was _delicious_ , even cold. Immediately I felt better about my situation. Had my short fuse been a product of nothing but base hunger? I hadn't eaten since that morning, and decided it was probably partially the case. But there had been so much to do - to organise - that this had been the first opportunity I'd had to eat.

Another bite of pie; I leaned back and chewed, blocking the ramblings of the Talos worshipper to take in the otherwise serene evening; a calm that I wanted to absorb before my performance. The old lady who had been selling silver at the marketplace wandered home; her arms laden with boxes of precious wares and her face grim, distracted by some internal worry. Another one of the vendors passed by, who I thought might have been selling fresh produce; a slim Imperial woman with high cheekbones and forehead, wearing a dress of similar design to the one I was wearing. She was chatting to a little girl by her side; the one who I had startled earlier in the marketplace, who had told me where the alchemist's store was. The doting smile on the woman's face told me that she was the girl's mother, and I smiled sadly as I watched them. A memory of running around mother with Giselle while she carried a basket of produce from the marketplace through the winding streets of Solitude slipped into their place.

I heard a rustle close by, and turned toward it as the mother and daughter walked away and the memory dispersed. A pair of warm-brown eyes framed by long lashes peeped through straight, ashen hair, framing a small, round, feminine face. She was still, and watching me closely, like a startled fawn.

Confused by the little girl's sudden, ghost-like arrival, my brows crossed as I took her appearance in. Her green dress was dirty, particularly around the hemline, and her feet were bare. She must have been about Dorthe's age, but she was smaller than Hadvar's cousin, and there was a reserved, defeated quality about her expression that made my heart twist.

"Would you like some pie?" I asked softly, splitting my food and holding out half. "It's cold, but it tastes great."

The girl flinched as I reached out to her. I stilled at once. If she was hungry, she could come and take it.

Her eyes darted from the food, back to me. "I can't pay for that, milady," she said in a regretful, quiet voice, but bit her bottom lip as her gaze drifted longingly back to the food.

"Well, that's good. I'm sharing it with you," I explained, urging her to take it. "I didn't ask for any money. I'd like you to have it."

The little girl's eyes wavered as she tore her gaze from the offered pie; her hand twitched subconsciously, half-extended to accept. "Why?"

I placed the half-pie on the paper wrapping between us and left the final decision to her. Glancing across the courtyard, I looked toward the central marketplace and shrugged. "Because it is a beautiful evening, and it's nice to have company while you eat, don't you think?" I turned back to her.

She didn't respond, but she carefully took hold of the pie. She brought it to her mouth hesitantly and nibbled at the crust. Her eyes widened, finally tasting it, and she took a more relishing mouthful.

I turned away again, smiling as the frustration of the day seeped out of me. It was impossible to stay vexed in the presence of this hungry little girl, whose needs were so easily met by simple acts. It was clear that she either had nobody to watch over her, or those who were meant to be caring for her weren't doing a very good job of it.

I continued eating my share of pie, and an increasingly companionable silence carried on until the food was gone. Only when the little girl had licked her fingers clean of all remnants of pie did she seem more at ease, and leaned back against the bench with a much happier sigh.

"That was yummy," she cast me a nervous, but grateful smile. "Your mama is very good at cooking," she complimented cautiously.

I shook my head; my own smile faltered. Mother had cooked several things well, but not pie. "My mama didn't cook it," I explained.

The sadness that crossed her face at my flat pronouncement was enough to tell me that her mother had passed away, too; as though there was only one look in the whole world that could convey such a loss, and it would only be recognised by those who had endured it.

"Oh," she turned her head down, staring at her feet as she lifted them up to the edge of the bench seat, tucking them under the hem of her dress as she rested her chin on her knees. Glancing toward the marketplace, her eyes shone. "My mama's gone, too," she spoke; barely a whisper. "Do you ever stop missing her?" her voice wavered.

My calm wavered precariously, but I found myself unable to tell her anything but the truth. I shook my head, and answered; "No."

She closed her eyes and I heard her breaths slow down. After a moment I realised that she was doing what I did; the deep breath calming technique, to stave off her tears!

Anger flared within me. Glancing around Whiterun, I wondered furiously how this child could have been overlooked by the wealthy merchants and innkeepers and smiths and Companions, or the priestesses of Kynareth?

"Why hasn't anybody-!?" I bit my tongue; closed my eyes; took a calming breath of my own so I could speak more gently, and tried again. "Do you have somewhere safe to go tonight?"

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on nothing ahead of her. "Hulda lets me sleep outside the Bannered Mare-"

" _Out_ side?" I cut her off.

She glanced to me, confusion on her face, and nodded.

The uproar within me strengthened, growing fierce, and I searched for a solution. Any solution.

 _You don't even have your own bed; you had to barter for one, and your performance begins at any moment,_ I berated. _You're a homeless orphan, lost in Whiterun; just like her._

"Here," I reached into my pack, ignoring the apathetic voice that scoffed at me for being affected by her. I had made a promise to be kind when I left Solitude, so I would _not_ ignore her as everybody else seemed to be comfortable doing. "Rooms at the Mare cost 10 gold. I heard Hulda say so earlier," I dug out some money.

The girl sat up straighter, shaking her head in panic. "You can't give me that. She'll think I've stolen it and make me go away!" she sounded anguished. "Then I'll have _nowhere_ to sleep!"

I faltered - worked over the problem again - but could come to no solution within my power to give. I had no resources, no money of my own, and knew nobody well enough to ask them to take her in.

 _Lydia._

"I understand. Sorry," I tossed the coins back into my bag. "Could you do me a favour, then, miss-?"

Relieved, the girl dangled her legs over the bench seat more comfortably, and sat straighter as she nodded eagerly. "Lucia," she offered. "Anything you ask, Lady...?"

"Celeste," I told her, lifting my chain, and the Passero seal dangling on it, up and over my head.

"Lady Celeste."

"I'm not a Lady," the corner of my mouth quirked as I held it out to her. "This ring is very precious to me. Could you please carry it to a woman named Lydia, up at Dragonsreach?" I asked. Her refusal to take even 10 gold had made me confident she wouldn't scarper with the heirloom.

Lucia glanced down at the ring, her eyes wide as she bit her bottom lip. "But, I'm not allowed in Dragonsreach," the dismay was evident in her tone.

I shook my head - I wasn't finished, and placed the ring in her palm, closed her fingers around it. "Anyone tries to stop you from going to Lydia, you show them this ring. Tell them that you're on a job for Celeste Passero, and I will be happy to answer any questions they have about your presence. I'll be in the Companion's hall, all night," I pointed to the upturned ship.

Lucia's eyes flickered to Jorrvaskr, then she hazarded me a wary glance. "You're...a Companion?" she asked slowly.

I smiled at her disbelief, unoffended. "I'm not, otherwise I would offer you a bed there," I grinned. "I'm a bard, and I'm scheduled to perform for the Companions at six."

"A _bard_!" Lucia's eyes shone again, but this time in wonder. "Oh, could you teach me to sing?" she pleaded; more animated than she had been for our whole encounter. "If I could sing, I could earn my keep like Mikael does," she added brightly.

I scrunched my nose at his name - Mikael was _not_ the kind of person to aspire to - and I preferred to keep hold of this fleeting hope than think about him. "I'm not sure I would make a very good teacher, I'm still a student myself," I offered with a laugh. "But I would be willing to try. Another day, though."

"Of course. You can't keep the Companions waiting," Lucia nodded seriously. "I can help you get ready!" she smiled hopefully. The infliction at the end made it feel more like a question.

"Sure, okay," I glanced around, wondering what job I could give her. My eyes fell to the new lute, which I had forgotten about.

 _I still need to tune it!_ I cringed, picking it up gingerly, testing the feel, and allowed myself to lament the loss of my beautiful lute to the dragon in Helgen with a regretful sigh.

"I'm actually all set, Lucia," I managed, hurriedly testing the strings and tweaking the tension where required. "It'll be better if you find Lydia before full night is upon us, anyway."

Lucia faltered in the corner of my eye while my fingers continued to test and pluck at the strings. I winced as the practise strings cut into the pads of my fingertips; my hard-worked calluses had softened over the course of a month. I rested my head on the round, cheap wooden body, to better hear the resonant harmonics, and ignored the sting to my fingers. It would only be temporary, as long as I continued playing.

"But I...maybe I...can do your hair, while you're tuning your lute?" she asked in a small voice. "I'm very good at plaits," Lucia added hopefully.

"That's a great idea," I lifted my head. If it made her happy to do so, it would prevent any further delays while she searched for some way to assist me.

Lucia smiled a huge smile, put the Passero seal around her neck, and knelt on the bench, instructing me to turn around. I swivelled so my back was to her, and focused on tuning while the little girl untangled my freely-flying hair with a small comb she must have had in one of her pockets. She hit snarls a few times, but always stopped and untangled them carefully before she continued to run her comb over the wavy tresses.

"Your hair is so long," she whispered as she took up the bulk in her hands, separating it into three sections. "Mama's hair was long, too, before she got sick."

I smiled sadly but could think of nothing to reply with.

Once the lute was tuned, I rested it on my knees and stared at it while Lucia worked. _I will need to continue to tune it throughout the night_ , I thought with a frown. It was always the way with a new instrument as the strings adjusted to the new tautness and loosened while they were played. The slack would be even worse with a practise instrument; the strings were not made of high quality steel but a woven cotton that had a lot more give in it.

I mused, deciding that I could re-tune between each song. Lucia braided my hair, starting high near the crown of my head, and weaving more and more hair into it with each twist. Within minutes, she was finished and told me I could turn around.

"That feels very secure," I complimented warmly, glad that I couldn't feel it pulling anywhere as I moved.

Lucia seemed happier, hopping off the bench seat with a visible spring to her step. "Shall I go to Lady Lydia now?" she asked helpfully.

"Yes, that would be best," I nodded toward Dragonsreach, biting my bottom lip as I wondered what Lucia could tell her without embarrassing either of them. I arrived at a decision swiftly enough, digging into my pack to withdraw a handful of gold. I ran my eyes over it; 26 pieces.

 _You owe Hadvar's family 236 gold._

"When you locate her, show her my ring then give her this money, and tell her that dinner and a room at the Bannered Mare is on me, if she would care to chaperone you there. The sight of her should keep Hulda, or anyone else, from bothering you," I held the gold out.

She frowned but accepted this time, tucking it into her pocket; her eyes lowering as she did. At first I thought it was to be sure that the gold was secure, but when her eyes remained lowered, I wondered if I had insulted her?

"What's wrong?" I asked gently, standing to put on my pack. I held the lute in one arm, and rested my other hand on Lucia's shoulder. "Hey. It's all right. Lydia is a friend. I'm sure that you'll like her."

Lucia looked up with tears in her eyes and shook her head. "And what happens tomorrow night, and the next?"

"We'll work something out," I met the little girl's eyes with confidence.

 _Work what out, exactly,_ I mocked? _Don't get involved; you can't solve your own problems, let alone the whole of Whiterun's!_

Determined to not stand by and do nothing, I pushed the snide voice down again and smiled at Lucia. Skyrim needed kindness right now.

"You promise?" Lucia asked in barely a whisper.

I nodded, reaching for the ring hanging around her neck, and taking it between two fingers to regard it. "This was my father's ring. It's very old and has been in my family for generations. Take care of this ring for me, and I'll come to the Mare tomorrow morning to retrieve it. Then...we'll talk."

In a beat, Lucia barrelled into me, throwing her arms around my waist. "Thank you!" she gasped.

I laughed, hugging her back, full of bright happiness and hope.

With little more to be said between us, Lucia darted off to ascend to Dragonsreach, and I turned toward the shorter flight of stairs leading up to Jorrvaskr with a smile on my lips, ready for whatever lay within.

–

A man the size of a bear in a set of heavy, hulking steel armour with a tangle of dark hair brushing his shoulders was blocking the doorway when I tried to enter Jorrvaskr.

I stopped from bumping into his back – barely. "Oh – excuse me," I sidestepped, casting him a grin as he turned toward me. It was time to be charming; tonight, everybody would receive my smiles.

He turned to me - frowned in confusion. He looked _very_ much like Vilkas. They had to be brothers, if not twins.

"You're new," he told me in a low growl that bore less of an accent than his brother's - this brother must have travelled more than the other.

I shook my head, recalling the earlier confusion downstairs, and resolved to be clear with the rest of the Companions. "Nope! I'm your bard for the night. Your brother and Master Whitemane accepted a night's performance in exchange for a bed and breakfast. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

The man offered little by way of reply, shrugging a single shoulder. Muscles bigger than my entire head rippled.

"Then you're on a job for Vilkas," he determined and nodded for me to proceed into the large, open room – the mead hall, Vilkas had named it. I glanced around it, and spotted him taking dinner at the end of one of the tables.

"In a manner of speaking," I gave the brother of Vilkas a perplexed smirk, determined to remain cordial with them all. "I'll report to him."

He _mm-hmm_ 'ed as I stepped down into the main room. Why was he just _standing_ there, blocking the entryway instead of taking dinner? I pushed the question away as I drew to a halt beside the smaller sibling.

The table was brimming with roasted meats and cheap ale, and surrounded by a rabble of warriors; some hulking and some lithe, all of whom were still in their armour. It was an intimidating sight, reminiscent of the glory of Sovngarde from the songs and stories that told of the afterlife, and for a moment I wondered if I should show myself out and forget about the performance. It had been presumptuous of me to ask.

 _No armour at the dinner table._

I smiled at the memory, and as though he could sense when anybody was enjoying themselves, Vilkas noticed me.

"Oh, you are back," his silvery eyes travelled over the lute, and disbelief arched his brow. " _That's_ your instrument?"

I nodded with confidence. Why did it matter to him if I played a lute or a soap box? "Where shall I set up?"

Vilkas half shrugged in the same dismissive manner his brother had moments ago – and stared about the hall for himself. "All right. Let's see," he turned half way around in his chair, waving toward the end of the hall. "The sound travels well enough from over there."

I followed his gaze to the broken table that the Dunmer man had been pummelled on by the fierce Njada. Someone had tried to mask the damage by adding a square of cloth and a bowl of fruit to it. It was in a dark end of the hall, empty of people and surrounded by mead barrels. I felt Vilkas' eerie gaze on me; felt that he was gauging me for some reason. I levelled my expression as I turned back to him.

 _It will suffice_ , I told myself in a rush. _Bards have played in less pretty buildings, in less pretty corners of rooms._

"As you wish," I spoke evenly, nodding my assent.

The corner of Vilkas' mouth twitched, and this time I was certain that he was trying to stop from betraying any form of amusement. Why did he insist on remaining so grim? Or, was he making fun of me?

 _It doesn't matter,_ I reminded myself. _Get to work._

"Please, let it be known amongst your fellows," I petitioned formally; "that should they wish to hear a particular song, do not hesitate to request it. I'm well versed in all of the standard tales and ballads."

Vilkas sat back and inclined his head. "I'll make it known."

"Thank you."

I turned and walked to the far side of the hall to the table Vilkas had indicated. For a few minutes I adjusted the scene; shifted chairs either side of the table, removed the cloth and draped it over the second chair, where I then lay the lute I hadn't broken in yet. Idly, I slipped my pack off my back and slid it under the table, my eyes on the lute all the while.

 _What am I going to sing?_

I hadn't thought about a programme yet; there'd been little enough time to acquire the lute. Another thought assailed me in a wave of panic; did I even remember how to play? I had never _not_ played for such a length of time.

 _Only one way to find out,_ I prodded my morose thoughts with a sigh.

There was no announcement; no introduction. No reason to delay. I sat and faced the main hall, glancing over the Companions. They were too interested in their own conversations and dinners to take any notice of me.

Cradling the lute, I tested each string. Two had already slipped, and I cursed, tightening the keys hastily.

Once that was done, I started finger-picking gently, idly, warming up my fingers as I took in the sight of my surrounds properly. The ceiling arched upward; the innards of the ship, and the walls were lined with blonde beams of wood, interspersed with darker, stronger support beams. Red banners hung on the walls and across the roof at seemingly random intervals, and the internal heavy beams were carved with all manner of traditional knotwork. The floor was made of grey stone, and worn smooth, with the hearth at the centre casting a shimmering yellow glow over every sword and shield hung on the wall, lining the armour of the Companions who sat around it and making their faces appear mask-like; their features half washed-out, and half cast in shadow.

It was time to begin, I decided, and began plucking the opening notes of a song. At once, my throat clenched, and my voice fled. _Why_ had I started playing _that_ song? It was _Matthild Built This Place_ ; the song I had been scheduled to play first for my performance at the Blue Palace.

I faltered, staring down at the strings as my breath hitched and eyes misted. I watched myself play the piece, unable to sing, swallowing a bitter mixture of fear, guilt and shame, _certain_ that this would break me. But I _wanted_ to make music again; I _had_ to do this.

 _Music is a vessel to the soul._

The words of a teacher, though I could not recall which, drifted through my thoughts, muffling my ill-timed grief like a soft, warm blanket.

My lessons, my training came back to me. Emotions were not to be suppressed and bottled, as I kept insisting on doing. Emotions were the lifeblood of our talent, intended to be felt and woven into our songs, turning the words and notes into something real and raw, and truthful.

I lifted my gaze to look over the Companions. A few of them were clearly listening, though they tried not to show it. Vilkas' larger brother was the only one showing any obvious signs of interest. He'd drifted from the doorway to lean against the main table, next to his brother. Vilkas, on the other hand, was merely sitting straighter, with his back to me, though I could have sworn that his ears were perked in my direction.

I hid a smile and lowered my eyes to the silly practise lute's cheap, woven strings, and eased the melody back to its beginning. When it was time, I cleared my throat, and sang softly;

" _At sixty winters she left Skyrim for good; She found this place and made it her home._ "

My will shifted into focus as I sang about elderly Matthild who had left all she had known for Valenwood, to teach and learn from the Bosmer in turn. For the first time, I sang wondering if my paralleled journey from Solitude, and all I knew, might do the same, with an inkling of hope for the future. I sang for the High King of Skyrim, as I had practised it with Headmaster Viarmo. I sang for my father.

I didn't notice the silence until I reached the final stanza; " _At eighty winters she went to Sovngarde; She left this place to all who would teach;_ " I looked up as I wound the song down, and sat up straight. All but a few eyes were upon me.

" _And to all who would learn,_ " I managed, flushing, hurriedly glancing back to the lute.

I picked out the closing bars, wincing as one of the strings slowly but surely slipped out of tune. I prayed that nobody else would notice it.

With _Matthild_ completed, I cast a hasty smile to the room so I could tighten the pesky string, then continued playing. I fell, a little too easily, into the programme I had intended to perform at the Blue Palace. The next song was a simple, lyrical ballad, titled _Truths of the North_ :

" _When the snow fades and the rivers run fat; The sun sits like a flower on a young boy's hat._ "

Wooden chair legs scraped against the stone floor; too loudly, as though intending to interrupt me. I made a point of continuing, as was expected of a bard, though I naturally glanced up to see who had done it.

Two had risen; the hulking bald man, and a lithe woman with fiery red hair and fearsome slashes of dark warpaint across her slim face.

" _The wise Nord knows it can never last; He enjoys the day, though it travels fast_ ," I kept half an eye on the pair as I sang, and nerves began to flutter about in my belly. While I determinedly kept my eyes on the lute, and everything except them, I felt their piercing gazes linger on me for longer than I was comfortable with.

One of them muttered something. I hazarded another glance in their direction, trying to remain, at least outwardly, happy and confident.

The red-headed woman was leaning over the table and saying something to Vilkas that I couldn't make out. He must have said something in response, but his back was to me, so I only saw him shrug in response. His brother looked between them with vague interest, then the red-head stood tall, frustrated. Her sharp eyes darted to me and narrowed, full of accusation.

My fingers slipped on the strings. Hastily glancing down to correct the mistake, I flushed through the rest of the song. I tried to focus on the notes and the words, putting all of my focus into it in an attempt to calm my racing heartbeat. But something about the woman's gaze stuck with me; made me feel not only afraid, but _guilty_ of whatever she had accused me of.

" _When frost returns and the rivers choke; The sun dips in the sky beneath evening smoke_ ," the seconds ticked by as I guided the song to its end, all the while listening carefully to the noises within the mead hall. There were footfalls, another indiscernible murmur, and then – _mercifully_ – the sound of the double-doors swinging open, and closing. They had left.

I let out a sigh of relief, but kept my eyes downturned until I had played the final note of _Truths_. Glancing up, I found the room as it had been before - quiet and attentive, minus the two glaring warriors. The Imperial woman who had given me directions earlier had turned in her chair, as had the Dunmer who had been beaten to a pulp upon my arrival. Both seemed interested, though the latter was frowning slightly. Beyond them, I could see an old woman in common clothing holding a broom, though she was leaning on it with her kindly eyes on me, rather than sweeping. The other Companions were eating and drinking but not really talking; several cast each other glances.

Some of them seemed a little uncomfortable, but at least they weren't trying to drown me out - or leaving as well.

For another heartbeat I wondered why my music had offended them - but a lesson from college assuaged my concern. Music was not to everybody's tastes, particularly if it pierced a hard-worked exterior, making feelings surface that they had endeavoured to bury. It was to be taken as a compliment from a troubled soul; a sign that I had reached them. _Not_ reacting to art was the greater offence.

Glancing at the two brothers again, I wondered what the red-headed woman had said to Vilkas, before she had left. Was he in trouble for hiring me?

I cleared my throat; I had been silent for too long. "Do you have any requests, or shall I continue my programme?" I smiled at the larger brother, for he _didn't_ have his back to me. I hurriedly tightened the two strings that had slipped out of tune during _Truths_.

A return smile appeared, altering the huge man's demeanour entirely, revealing an intrinsically amiable nature. I bit back a startle at the sight of that fierce face with its barriers down. I had been convinced that these men didn't know how to smile, but he did it unhesitatingly, as though it _was_ natural for him to be happy. Perhaps I had misjudged them.

"Just keep doing what you're doing," he rumbled pleasantly across the hall.

A few chuckles were uttered by the other Companions, and I joined them, glancing down to hide my brief, relieved, prideful grin.

Once the bothersome strings were back in tune, I moved onto my third piece; _Honor's Rest._ A slower, tranquil tune; a memorial to fallen warriors of bygone eras. I was confident that it wouldn't be lost on my crowd.

" _In these halls the warriors find serenity; Upon walls names carved for eternity; And shall never be forgotten,_ " the lower notes of the melody had always challenged me, demanding that I sing from the very bottom of my diaphragm if I wanted to be heard. It had been one of the Dean's favourite songs to test ladies of the college with during aural exams.

This time, as the words left my lips and travelled to my own ears, I ignored my technique. All I could think about was my father and mother, laid to rest at the Temple in Solitude before their time.

The song broke something in me, but I was determined to perform it, and rather than shed my tears, I pushed them into my music. The weight of the final threads settled on my shoulders like a shroud, but one that would keep me warm if I let it; " _Drink deep of long lost memories; Shed light on faded histories; That must never be forgotten._ "

When I looked up at the end of the song, and my vision had cleared, a few more Companions had turned in their seats to watch me. Beyond them, I spied Kodlak Whitemane, standing still at the top of the staircase to the lower levels. He was just _standing_ there, at the opposite end of the hall as though frozen in time, with a hand resting on a support pillar. While I couldn't really see his eyes through the gloom, I _felt_ the full weight of his attention.

 _This is good. They're definitely going to tip you,_ I assured with some relief. I smiled across the mead hall, addressing their motionless leader.

"Any requests, Master Whitemane?"

Some of the others turned in their seats, clearly surprised by his appearance. Perhaps he didn't join them for dinner all that often?

The old man shook his head and I noticed the old woman with the broom hasten toward him.

"Proceed as you like, Miss Passero," he spoke softly, but I heard him clearly, as though he was standing next to me.

I obliged, confident in my programme now I had been given his leave. Half way through my next song, the old woman, who I assumed was the housekeeper, placed a jug of water and a cup on the broken table behind me. I smiled at her through my song in thanks, fairly certain that Kodlak must have arranged it.

The night wore on and I sang and played, and after each song, I noticed more and more interest in my performance. The Imperial woman, the Dunmer man, and another Nord man with cheeks warmed in flush, drifted to my end of the hall and sat. I grew more sanguine as I let the music sweep through me, catching hold of the emotions I had held back for the past month; all the sadness and fear, anger and injustice, and most recently, the warmth and excitement roused by my fleeting encounter with Hadvar, and the hope inspired by little Lucia. Instead of throttling me, my emotions threaded between the notes, and drifted into the room like a Midyear zephyr.

By my final song, the rest of the Companions - even the stern-eyed grey-haired one who had scowled at Lydia - had drifted to my end of the hall. Only Kodlak, Vilkas and his brother remained at the table. Kodlak was clearly pleased, and murmured to the brothers frequently, though I caught none of what he said.

I finished with _Kyne's Tears._ Though the words were sad and the melody in a minor key, I smiled as I sang, recalling Dorthe's sweet, hummed rendition that had greeted me as I had been ushered into the warmth of Hadvar's family's home. The memory glided through me, into my fingertips and onto the strings as I plucked, filling me with optimism.

And once I had finished, I lifted my head to my audience and cleared my throat. "Thank you, brothers and sisters of Skyrim, for accepting my offering," I winced at a hoarseness to my voice. I hadn't practised in a month; I would pay for it now.

Those nearest me clapped; the Imperial and Dunmer especially. Most of the Companions merely rose from their seats and turned away, offering me nothing. A few drifted outside through the back double-doors, and a few sauntered to the staircase that led to the lower level. The old woman went back to her sweeping, and a bald Nord man I'd not noticed earlier stepped out of the shadows and began clearing plates from the tables.

I drank the last of the water and collected my belongings. Despite the lack of applause, I felt alarmingly satisfied, and glided to the table where Kodlak and the brothers sat.

I flashed the larger brother a half smile; my thanks for the confidence he had loaned me, early on in the performance; then focussed on Kodlak. "Were the songs to your liking, Master Whitemane?"

His silvery eyes were inspecting me; his face thoughtful, but at my question he sat back, blinked comfortably, and replied around a small smile. "Unexpectedly so, Miss Passero. Your spirit soared high tonight, and you were obliging enough to allow us to take the journey with you."

I glanced down, unable to mask my flush and giddy smile. What a compliment! "Thank you," I murmured, looking up; my eyes flickering to Vilkas and his brother. Vilkas' expression was steady, unreadable, and reminded me of what had happened before Kodlak had arrived. "I fear I might have offended some of your colleagues, with my choice of songs."

Kodlak frowned, confused, and deferred to Vilkas for an explanation.

He supplied one in that strong, accented drawl of his, edged with a trace of bitterness. "Aela and Skjor do not wish to share their _journey_ with any but each other."

" _Vilkas_ ," Kodlak reproached, then shook his head with an understanding, if not sad sigh. "Do not take offence," he told me wearily. "Their hearts are bright and their spirits wild; they wish to be affected, and pacified, by nothing and nobody."

"It's all right," I cut in softly; _I_ was not offended. A weariness to Kodlak's tone made me wonder at the hour, and I suppressed a yawn as I added; "Might you direct me to the bed I've secured for the night? It's been...quite a day."

"That it has," Kodlak stood, motioning toward Vilkas' larger, quieter brother. "Farkas will show you the way. I apologise in advance that we can't supply a private room, but you have nothing to fear under our roof. Even the youngest of pups has honour, despite first appearances," his eyes twinkled as he gave me that half-smile again. "Should you require anything throughout the night, seek out Tilma," he indicated the old woman with the broom.

I thanked him and bade them good night, then lifted my eyes up – and up – to settle on the looming Farkas. His eyes were similar to Vilkas', down to the black warpaint around them. Did they ever take it off, I wondered? They must have done – otherwise their pillows would be caked in black kohl.

"Lead the way," I suppressed a laugh as Farkas led me toward the stairs. Kodlak and Vilkas remained at the table and resumed talking in low, rumbling voices.

Farkas, on the other hand, didn't say a word until we closed the doors to the lower level behind us.

"I liked your singing," he spoke flatly. "It was very...soothing."

I glanced toward him, surprised by the lack of warmth to his tone. Was he being facetious? Surely not - I could see no traces of falseness on his face.

"Thank you," I cast him a small smile, assuming that he _had_ meant it. "I enjoyed performing for those who wished to hear me, too."

The large man cast me a smirk. "Aela and Skjor don't like to be calm. They think it dulls their edge."

"Understandable," I replied. "I imagine you warrior types need to be on constant guard; ready to strike at a moment's notice."

"Something like that," Farkas rumbled, stopping in an open doorway and waving his hand into the room beyond. "Here you are. Pick a bed and fall in it."

I snorted at his choice of words as I peered into the room. About eight beds lined the walls of a large dormitory, interspersed with dressers, weapon racks and locked chests. Several of the beds were occupied, and I could hear light snoring coming from one of them.

" _Any_ bed?" I whispered, glancing back to him. "I wouldn't want to sleep in someone else's bed. No one has claim on any of them?"

Farkas shrugged, speaking at the same volume he had before, despite the sleeping forms within. "Doubt it. It all works out in the end."

"Yes, we do," a sharp female voice called from across the room. "This is my bed. Don't touch it or my stuff," she called. I searched for the speaker, and made out the top of a blonde head settling itself back onto the pillow. I paled; it was the fearsome _Njada_.

"Leave her alone," another voice called wearily. A quick search confirmed the speaker to be the Imperial woman. She looked up from her pillow and pointed to a bed opposite hers. "There. Nobody's slept in that one for a while."

I nodded my thanks to her as relief swept through me, then thanked Farkas for bringing me. Neither replied, so I simply moved to the spare bed, placed my pack on the end, lay the lute carefully on the dresser beside it, and after shucking off my boots, climbed in.

As I lay both under and on scratchy furs, fully clothed, I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to sleep. My thoughts were awash with memories of the performance; how the songs had drawn so much out of me, yet had left me feeling more alert and refreshed. I had felt this way in the past when I had performed, but never with such intensity. It was _exhilarating_.

I spared a thought for Lucia and Lydia, hoping that all had gone according to plan. I prayed to the Eight that they were both at the Mare right now, and had enjoyed dinner and each other's company throughout the night, unable to bear the alternative; little Lucia, curled up in the dirt outside of the inn, cold and alone.

What, if anything, could I do to ensure that Lucia never slept outside again? I could come to no immediate, workable solution, and she was the last thought I remembered having before sleep finally claimed me.

* * *

 _A/n: Thanks again for the reviews :) so glad that there are some people enjoying this rambling tale that's proving to be much longer than I expected it to be! I suppose that's the way with Skyrim, though - constantly being distracted by the characters you meet and side-quests...would love to hear people's thoughts :)_


	13. Arrangements

_Chapter 13: Arrangements_

I woke and rose early, tip-toeing around the dark room, confirming that none of the other Companions in the dormitory had risen. Worrying that I might wake them if I lingered, I gingerly picked up my belongings and crept out.

The lengthy hallway was lit by lanterns, as there were no windows in the lower level, and I briefly prepared for the day there; slipping into my boots and detangling my braid, letting my hair relax freely. It was springier than usual, as I had slept on the plait. I wrinkled my nose at the creases in my dress, determining that as soon as I had access to my money, I would buy some new outfits, even if it meant being swindled by Belethor again. Sigrid's dress was nice, but I had worn it for a whole day, and slept in the under-dress twice now.

I glanced up to the ceiling as I smoothed down the dress as best I could. Would breakfast be laid out yet? What time was it?

There were boots shuffling overhead, so at least I wasn't the first to wake. Even if it was servants, they could tell me when breakfast might be ready.

There was really only one way to find out, so I strapped the lute to the outside of my pack, shouldered it, and ascended to the mead hall level.

I pulled up on the landing, just in time to prevent careening into the last two people I had hoped to cross; the red-headed Aela and the grim-faced Skjor. At this proximity I noticed the scars on his face, heightened rather than hidden by his war-paint.

My eyes widened in alarm, as did theirs. It was clear they had wanted to avoid me, as well.

They must have been out all night; they were still in their armour. Skjor recovered first, straightening his back, training a dangerous scowl on me; hard and judgemental. Aela stilled, and her jaw clenched while her yellow eyes glared through me; guarded and angry.

"Come on," she grasped Skjor's arm; her words hissed through her teeth.

"I'm sorry," the words bumbled out of me.

Aela and Skjor had begun their descent, but turned back slowly, their eyes awash with accusation.

I cursed, wishing I'd said nothing, and lowered my eyes to the flagstones. I searched for the right words, but my talents failed me under their persistent, penetrating glares.

All this for playing music in their presence? What a disagreeable pair! The childishness of their reaction struck me, and my fear shifted into indignant frustration. How _dare_ they be so rude to me? I had entered into an agreement with their leader - had been doing my _job_.

Caught by indecision, before I could recover or decide if I should put my thoughts into words – for what was the point? – the doors at the bottom of the stairs opened and closed.

I glanced to the doors, surprised but relieved. They had gone. I had been certain they would threaten me, tell me to leave and never show my face in Jorrvaskr again, or accuse me of weakening their colleagues.

"Early riser, hmm?"

I recognised Vilkas' voice before I saw him. He was at the table around the central hearth with a bottle of mead in his hand; his eyes downturned, focussed on an open book before him.

He was pointedly avoiding mentioning the encounter with Aela and Skjor, so I did the same. "I didn't want to risk waking anybody."

He shook his head; his eyes remained on the book, but I could have sworn I saw him _smirk_.

"You don't need to tiptoe around that lot," he spoke with _actual_ _good_ _humour_. It _had_ been a smirk. "I doubt _they_ would wake at this hour if a dragon crashed onto our roof," he muttered around a _chuckle_.

It was the first sign of amusement he'd expressed, and his casual reference to a dragon stilled me. I regarded him carefully; did he know I'd been in Helgen - was he trying to get me to talk about it?

But Vilkas didn't seem to need a response, and showed no signs of continuing our conversation. He took a draught from his mead now and then and bore my speculative stare without incident.

I shook myself - he was not playing games with me, and the dragon at Helgen was _not_ all about me. It was on everybody's minds because it had happened at all. I stepped down to the hearth level of the mead hall, looking over the tables. Breakfast had already been laid out; breads, fruits, poached eggs and sausages. With such ample food prepared, I wondered at the hour again, and why Vilkas was the only Companion at the breakfast table.

I eased my pack down and sat quietly, perpendicular to my unwitting breakfast partner. I glanced between Vilkas and the food. Could I just help myself as I pleased? When he neither reacted nor instructed me, I reached out, took a plate, and assembled a modest fill of fruit, eggs and toast.

The silence became strained as it persisted. With a frown, I peered at Vilkas' book; "What are you reading?"

After a slight hesitation, a flat reply came; " _The Accounts_."

"Oh?" I sat back, popping a grape into my mouth. He seemed determined _not_ to engage in conversation, and without knowing why, it made me more curious. "I've never heard of that one. Who's it by?"

Vilkas gave me a wary, sidelong look. "I suppose you could call it an anthology."

"Is it good?"

"It's _necessary_."

I huffed a laugh, perplexed. "Are you not enjoying it?"

Vilkas' mouth twitched as he turned his eyes back to the book. " _Enjoy_ is a subjective term," his tone was droll.

I laughed again, realising that he was teasing me. It mustn't have been a novel, or he wouldn't have bothered, given his penchant for avoiding amusement. Which meant that the book was probably related to work.

Silence fell between us again, but I didn't mind any longer; Vilkas was busy working, and despite his gruffness, I didn't feel threatened by him as I did by some of his colleagues. I ate and let my mind wander, mulling over the day ahead; Lydia and Lucia at the Bannered Mare to discuss the future, and Farengar at Dragonsreach to discuss...the past. Inwardly, I groaned; not only was he going to ask me to relive the events of Helgen, but was also very likely going to insist that I hadn't really heard the dragon speaking that day.

I sighed. It was no good angsting over the particulars of an audience I had not yet attended. Farengar would believe what he chose to believe, and it was not my desire, or duty, to change his mind.

Turning, I unstrapped the lute and pushed my chair back to cradle the instrument without bashing the table. I needed a distraction, and music had always been my go to for one, before my recent hiatus. Playing music distanced my conscious from subconscious, similar to dreaming, allowing me to focus on my music while my mind ticked over my problems.

Four of the strings had slipped overnight; the higher pitched ones, of course. I tuned quietly for a while, resting my ear on the body so I wouldn't disturb Vilkas. Once it was back in tune, I strummed a few chords idly to confirm they would play nicely together.

It would do. Satisfied, I chose a song at random, and plucked out _Ode to the Elden Tree._ Vilkas stilled, then his attention shifted from his book to me, but only for a moment. When his gaze drifted back to his book, I heard him sigh with resolve.

I wasn't working for him now, so I didn't see any reason to perform, and played the simple tune for myself. It was a favourite; the patterns straightforward and the melody sweet. Sometimes it was nice to play a song I was confident in for the beauty of it, rather than a more complicated or challenging piece that required a particular technique to be tested.

I frowned when my fingers slipped at a changeover, and restarted, playing a little slower to figure out why I had gone wrong. I didn't slip again, so I shrugged it off.

My concerns ebbed as I focused on only that which was in front of me. My fingertips stung, throbbing as I pressed against the neck, and I determined to practise as much as I could over the next few days, to work my calluses back to their former strength. After I'd played _Ode_ through twice without slipping, I switched to an Argonian ballad; _A Shallow Pool;_ picking out the tune and giving my voice a rest.

But once it was done (with _no_ mistakes, I was relieved to note), I put the instrument away. It was time to leave before my idle practise turned into an all consuming session where I lost track of everything but my music. I was not in the Bard's college, but the home of the Companions, and I had only arranged to linger in their halls until I had eaten breakfast.

And there was still much to do today. I picked up my pack and rose, shouldering it with a glance in Vilkas' direction. Should I say good bye, or just tip-toe out?

He glanced up, making the decision for me.

"Time I was going, I think," I cast him a small, courteous smile. "Could you thank Master Whitemane for giving me a chance last night?"

Vilkas sat back and nodded once. "I'll tell him."

"Thank you," I turned away. _No tip, then._

I'd taken maybe three steps when Vilkas called out, somewhat hesitantly. "Or, you could tell him yourself?"

I half-turned, confused by his tone, more than his words. "I'm sorry?"

He crossed his arms, swinging back on his chair. "I'm offering you a contract," he said with a dryness that didn't suit what he was saying.

My brows furrowed as I turned properly to regard him. "I'm not sure that would be wise, considering two of your number couldn't bare to sit in the same room with me," I motioned toward the staircase, as though it explained everything.

"Kodlak will speak to Aela and Skjor," Vilkas waved a hand with an air of dismissal.

"Even so," a prickle of uncertainty crept over my skin. "I'm...honoured you would ask, but I'm leaving Whiterun today or tomorrow," I turned again to leave.

"You'll be well paid," chair legs scraped against the flagstones.

"Thank you, but I can't," I spoke over my shoulder as an itch to flee grasped at my control. I felt shut in and stuffy, and a desire to leave Jorrvaskr and feel the morning breeze on my face overwhelmed me, making my words come thick and fast. "I am promised elsewhere. If my situation changes, I shall let you know," I held up my hand in farewell.

I glanced back when I reached the door and caught his response; a hand raised and an expression of begrudging acceptance. But Vilkas' silvery eyes startled me, and I hastily turned away and slipped outside.

In them, I had not seen narrowed frustration, condemnation or disdain as I had expected. I had found only regret, and apology.

–

The fresh breeze did much to brush off the sudden intensity of Jorrvaskr and its surly occupant's parting words.

The sun had barely risen and the sky was a clear, delicate shade of mauve, promising a fine, cold day. Closing my eyes and taking in a renewing breath of crisp morning air, my anxiety scattered, and I smiled.

I had to admit, a contract was tempting, even if it was out of the question for the present time. To be the live-in bard of the legendary Companions of Jorrvaskr! That I had even been _asked_ was a great compliment. A month ago I would have leapt at the opportunity - such an engagement would have secured a level of esteem attained by only a few of my peers.

But now? Something deeper clawed at me, almost panicked at the prospect of being tied them, be it for gold or any other reason. I had to keep moving. A smattering of responsibilities lay between me and the freedom to pursue the way of the thu'um to keep my promise and avenge the havoc Ulfric Stormcloak had wrought on our country; the deaths, the families torn apart, and the sons and daughters pit against one another for his war.

No. Now was not the time to settle down into a cushy contract with a faction of burly mercenaries.

I walked to the Bannered Mare, relieved that given the early hour, I wouldn't have to manoeuvre my way around Mikael.

Within, the tavern was hazy but serene, blushed by the wan hues of the hearth's glowing embers. I asked the publican about Lydia, and she directed me to a room with an arch to her eyebrow.

 _This is the woman who believes she is showing a child kindness by allowing her to sleep outside,_ I reminded myself, suppressing the urge to scowl as I thanked her.

I knocked on the door Hulda directed me to, and after a shuffle from within, it was opened by a weary-looking Lydia, dressed in loose, comfortable clothing.

Warmth and gratitude swept through me at the very sight of her, and my smile doubled when I saw the little braids plaited throughout her ebony locks.

"Good morning, Lydia."

She gave me an exasperated look, motioning for me to move back, and then stepped into the hallway with me, closing the door and leaning against it. "Lucia is sleeping," she murmured, covering a wide-mouthed yawn. "And it's no wonder, poor little lass," she added, shaking her head in dismay. She dug around in the pocket of her trousers, and withdrew the Passero seal on its chain. "Here. This is yours."

I accepted, heartened that they _had_ taken to one another. "I'm sorry - I know, it was presumptuous of me to send her to you," I started quietly, as we were in a public hallway. "When she told me she was sleeping _outside,_ I didn't know who to turn to -"

"I know, I know," Lydia waved her hand dissmissively. "It's all right."

"Well," I inclined my head, anyway. "I hope you had a nice evening together."

Her green eyes, suddenly shrewd, found mine. "You really are your father's daughter," she murmured pointedly. "His official duties were delayed frequently as he attempted to meet the needs of every person he crossed paths with."

I quirked a brow at her. "And you went along with him?"

"Of course," Lydia's mouth levelled into a flat line. "I swore an oath when I became a housecarl; to support my Thane's every whim and wish. Regardless of their motive, goal, or outcome."

"That must have been frustrating," I frowned, then shook the topic off, as I had little enough time as it was. "But I will take it as a compliment. Compassion is hardly a sin. What are we to do about Lucia's situation, then?"

Lydia relaxed more comfortably against the door, and sighed. "What do you _want_ for her?"

That was easy. "I want her to be safe, with a bed in a real home, and with someone watching over her and making her feel wanted."

Lydia nodded in agreement, and we fell into discussion, weighing options. Once I had access to my account I could provide a room for her at the Mare, and she or I could check in on her from time to time. Lydia dissuaded me immediately - for it met only one of her needs - and reminded me that the girl would be under the watchful gazes of Hulda and Mikael when neither of us were here.

Scrapping that idea, I asked about the more prominent families in Whiterun - ones who might be able to spare a bed, even to take her in as a serving girl, but Lydia wasn't certain - in the wrong home it would seem as though we had palmed her off to a miserable fate - and again, being some rich family's serving girl would _hardly_ make her feel _wanted_.

Through another yawn, Lydia then proposed a plan of her own; "I could always adopt her?"

I blinked at her, uncertain. Was she joking? Was she in a position to adopt?

She shrugged and smiled easily, though her cheeks pinked as she clarified. "Unless you intended to adopt her yourself, of course. I'd need your help to make it possible, though."

"Don't you sleep in the barracks at Dragonsreach?" I asked bluntly. "What if you are assigned to another Thane who makes you traipse around Skyrim, carrying their luggage?"

She rolled her eyes, then pushed my shoulder lightly. "Like I said, I would need your help."

I flushed. "Sorry. Of course. If it is a matter of funding, Belethor assured me-"

Lydia shook her head, cutting me off. "No, I have plenty of that saved away. But you can't adopt unless you are a home owner, and I'm not deemed _worthy_ enough to be sold property in town," she rolled her eyes, leaning her head back, glancing to the ceiling. "Proventus Avenicci controls the estates within the Hold. He awards them like prizes," her eyes flickered to me, "and, he suggested that your father purchase a house in town, the last time he was here. Thane Passero laughed it off as a joke."

Well - that was easy, and certainly within my power to attempt; so long as the offer made to father would extend to me. "All right, I'll try."

Lydia smiled, clasping a hand to my shoulder. "Ever your father's daughter, little one."

"Stop saying that," I flashed her an amused sideways glance as I swatted her off. "If it's what you need and it will get Lucia off the streets, I will do all I can to make sure he sells it to me."

Lydia and I discussed the logistics for only as long as was necessary. I would ask Proventus for a house with the Jarl in earshot, since my father had been such an apparent favourite his. The house, if I succeeded, would be in both our names, but it would for all intents and purposes be Lydia's home, as I had no need of a house in Whiterun. Once it had been secured, she would be able to adopt Lucia. And, after a time, it would be a simple matter for me to sign my half of the title over to her.

I left the Mare with a spring to my step. It reassured me that Lydia, a woman I had met less than a day ago, had become such a trusted and reliable comrade in such a short space of time. Knowing her made me feel less alone, and more ready to meet whatever questions, or revelations Farengar had in store for me.

 _Maybe Lydia can adopt you, too_ , I joked as I climbed the steps to Dragonsreach and slipped my ring back around my neck.

I shook my head, exasperated - I didn't need to be tied down by a contract, _or_ a family right now.

–

Dragonsreach wasn't nearly as formidable in the early morning light, and I felt quite tranquil as I stepped inside and made my way to the central hearth. Perhaps I felt its impact less because I knew what to expect of it.

The Jarl's throne was empty, but officials and children sat at the tables surrounding the fire, taking their breakfasts. The adults looked like stewards, and given the quality of their clothing, I had to assume the children were the Jarl's own sons and daughter.

No one paid me any mind as I passed by. Proventus Avenicci was among them, in his own world; slurping from a large mug as his eyes roamed over a document before him. I would talk to him later about the house, once the Jarl was in session.

Farengar was chewing on a piece of ham, but noticed my approach and waved me over, collecting his breakfast as he stood. "Ah, good," the lilt to his accent made his words seem more melodious and amicable than they had the previous day. "I had a feeling you were an early bird," he nodded toward his office. "Let's go. There is a lot to discuss."

Saying nothing, I followed him to the open room to the right of the main hall. It seemed to serve as both his office and living quarters, lit by tall, free-standing lanterns with two large, dark, heavy desks in the centre, positioned in an L-shape. A scattering of books littered them, though there was a sense of order about them - purposefully placed; each a piece of a larger puzzle. A map of Skyrim was tacked to a standing board to my right and a scattering of small, red pins were stuck into it at seemingly random points. At the back of the room was a round table carved with rune-like adornments, illuminated by rows of unlit candles, used for enchanting armour and weapons. Either side of this were doors to antechambers, one of which was open. I made out the edge of a bed within.

"Take a seat," he offered, far more animated than the previous day.

I sat gingerly, warily, wondering at the change in him. Yesterday he spoke as though he thought I was lying. What had changed over the course of a few hours?

Offloading my pack, I murmured my thanks. Farengar nodded hastily and placed his breakfast on the enchanting table, then turned back to his desk, dropping into his own chair.

We stared at each other for a moment. The nerves within me built during the silence, and I had to wonder if he was trying to make me uneasy? His hood was raised, so I could make out little of his expression, though today I could make out the shape of his eyes under the shadow of his hood; squared at me.

"Is there any place in particular you would like me to begin?" I asked as serenely as I could manage under such weighty scrutiny.

He shook himself. "Apologies for staring, Miss Passero. I'm afraid I had very little sleep," he leaned forward and picked up a notebook and quill. "Of course, we must begin at the beginning. Tell me how it was that you came to be in Helgen?"

 _Oh._

"Well," I hesitated, trying to mask my dismay. _Remember, you did nothing wrong. You were trying to travel to Cyrodiil._

Farengar's interest in my story would outweigh any desire he might have to hand me over to the Stormcloaks, or the Legion, once he knew the full of it. If Jarl Balgruuf truly was a neutral party in a Skyrim at war, perhaps I would be safe from both, anyway.

Mustering my resolve, I explained how I had been captured, brought before Ulfric, captured again during the Empire's raid, then transported to Helgen, led to what I had thought would be my death.

"You were to be executed?" he interrupted, quieter than before. A hint of uncertainty was squashed by an evident concern.

"I was," I confirmed, meeting his eyes. I hadn't expected him to be agitated by this part of the tale.

"But – your father," he regarded me with some disbelief. "Did you not tell the Legion who you are?"

Dwelling on those final moments before the dragon had attacked made my chest constrict and shoulders tighten. My lips pursed and I replied, "I assure you, I did all within my power to delay my beheading. My efforts were in vain, but mercifully, the Divines sent a dragon to save me."

" _Save_ you?" he uttered.

I lowered my eyes, huffing an ironic laugh. "I'm sorry. I don't truly believe it saved me. I'll continue," I sat straighter, resolved to get this done.

Farengar nodded for me to proceed.

"I saw it from the side, while my cheek lay on the bloodied chopping block. The dragon landed high on a tower, behind the headsman's axe aimed at my neck," I murmured wryly. I felt flat, somehow distanced from the event and the fear. Perhaps I could pretend this was merely an adventure story I had read, and was retelling.

"Shor's balls," Farengar whispered a curse as his quill fell from his hands.

His reaction calmed me somehow, and I pressed on while he recovered it. I went over what I had told him yesterday in as much detail as I could muster; how the dragon had made the molten balls of rock fall from the sky with a scream, and the words I had heard the dragon say during our escape.

"This is what I don't understand, Miss Passero," he had recovered over the course of my tale, and leant forward; quill perched and ready. "You tell me that you understood what the dragon said, as though it spoke in the common tongue? This is impossible."

I frowned and shook my head, unfazed because I knew what I had heard. "Jarl Balgruuf suggested that wasn't entirely the case yesterday," I reminded him. "But perhaps I should clarify. The dragon spoke the words in its own tongue; I merely heard a translation in my mind. Until yesterday, I assumed that everybody had heard it," I lifted my brows pointedly. It was time for _him_ to do some explaining.

"You _heard_ a _translation_ in your _mind_?" he stared in utter disbelief.

 _Okay, that's bad?_ I stilled, watching him cautiously as he raised a shaking hand and drew back his hood. With some agitation, he ran a hand through short, dark hair. It tufted out in a few places in braids, and thick stubble hugged both sides of his face. Finally, I could see his eyes, and they were a piercing shade of light blue.

"I don't understand, Farengar," I managed haltingly. "Why is this impossible? How can you be _certain_ that I was the only one to hear what it said? Dragons have not been seen for eras; in ancient times it may well have been commonplace-"

"I assure you, it was not," Farengar cut me off, lifting his dark eyebrows pointedly. He glanced from his journal to a pile of books beside it, exhaling with a shudder, then raised his eyes to me again, more composed.

"As for my reaction, I can't attest at this time. We need to find out more about this," he searched for a word, motioning toward me with a wave of his hand, "aptitude of yours."

I huffed. "It's not as though I took _lessons_ in dragon speech-"

"Indeed, you did not," he widened his eyes; his words too knowing for my liking. He _was_ keeping the truth from me. "There's an errand you can run for me, which will help to...untangle this riddle."

I quirked an eyebrow at him.

He glanced toward the map pinned to the sideboard. "A colleague of mine, invested as I in the untimely appearance of a dragon, has alerted me to the whereabouts of an ancient relic, called the Dragonstone," he revealed in his enigmatic lilt.

Subconsciously, I shivered in anticipation.

"Should your journey to retrieve it prove successful, I will be able to use it to answer our questions."

"Wait – _my_ journey...? You wish _me_ to retrieve this Dragonstone?" I asked hurriedly, skeptically. "I'm a bard, not a mercenary. Or a mage," I motioned toward him. "Why haven't you retrieved it if you need it?"

"I'm afraid that it doesn't work that way," Farengar answered just as swiftly. An edgy restraint filled his tone as he looked away and held up a hand. "If you wish me to answer your questions, you must personally retrieve the stone. And, I will know," condescendingly, he arched an eyebrow, "if you utilise your family's impressive fortune to hire someone to complete the task for you."

I sat back, defeated. What was going on?

"I understand," I heard myself say, even though that was far from the truth. "Tell me where this Dragonstone is being kept."

Farengar rose and spoke in a more obliging tone. "Not far. We think it's in a crypt just north of Riverwood," he stopped before the large map of Skyrim, and motioned for me to join him before he rested a long, slim finger on the screen. "Here it is."

I squinted; a small depiction of a ruin on a mountain side stared back at me. "Bleak Falls Barrow," I read. "Oh," I stood straight. "I saw it from the road into Riverwood."

Farengar nodded and withdrew. "That's right. It should be easy to find."

Then he turned to me, his eyes suddenly blazing with excited, almost prophetic zeal. "Hasten to Bleak Falls Barrow, Miss Passero. Retrieve the Dragonstone, and we will be closer to overcoming this dragon problem for good."

I stared at him; _that's_ what this was about?

He turned back to his desk. I collected my thoughts and drifted after him, dizzy from the strangeness of our discussion. I had just travelled to Whiterun to deliver a message, and now I had been drawn into a quest to save Skyrim from the dragon? This was all getting very complicated.

I stood behind a chair, resting my hands on the back as my clouded thoughts finally formed coherent questions. "I don't understand why it must be _me_ who retrieves this Dragonstone. You must explain at least that," I insisted.

Farengar's keen blue gaze fell on me at once. "I thought that would have been obvious, but, perhaps not," he quipped with an impatient sigh. "All right, then. The Dragonstone may only be retrieved by one who can speak to dragons. I am not sure why," he held up his hand quickly when I opened my mouth; it wasn't as though I was carrying out conversations with dragons in my spare time!

"But, you might find the reason for this is a moot point," his eyes lowered, hooded by his lashes.

I withdrew at the menace behind his look and glanced him up and down. Was he _trying_ to frighten me? Indignation threatened to boil out of me, but was tempered by a chasm of unknown that what Farengar _hadn't_ told me had opened.

"Either you can understand the language of the dragons, intrinsically as you claim, or you cannot," he posed flatly. "So, either you will retrieve the Dragonstone, or you will not."

If he wasn't threatening me, he was certainly testing me. I retrieved my pack, shouldering it as I nodded. I rose to Farengar's challenge, despite the racing of my heart and the small voice in my mind begging me to refuse; retrieval of an artefact from an ancient ruin might be incredibly dangerous.

"All right, Farengar," my words were cool and flat to my own ears. "I will find you this Dragonstone, but then you will _explain_ ," I bargained.

Farengar bowed his assent with a muted smile arching his thin lips. "Agreed. I look forward to our next conversation, Miss Passero."

I _hmphed_ as I turned on my heel and walked out of his office.

* * *

 _A/n: thanks so much for the reviews last chapter, everyone! Really made my week and motivated me to keep going!_


	14. A Slight Hitch

_Chapter 14: A Slight Hitch_

I had nearly left Dragonsreach by the time I remembered I needed to speak to Proventus about buying a house.

Mere steps from the great doors leading outside, I closed my eyes and breathed a deep, composing breath, before I turned back to attend to my second reason for being there. Lydia and Lucia were relying on me.

The way Farengar had played me resounded within me like a clear, mocking peal. He had given me no assistance, no answers, and despite the warmer welcome when I had arrived, by the end of our discussion he had reverted to his impatient, condescending self.

I pushed all he had said (and _not_ said) aside with a mental shove. Farengar had given me no timeline in which to complete his task, so I did not have to rush out and retrieve the Dragonstone at once. Perhaps I could ignore the request entirely and conduct my own research into why I had understood what the dragon had said; I owed Farengar nothing.

I would have to decide later. Nearing Proventus, I swept into a brief curtsy. The Jarl was in session now, and I felt his attention settle on us with interest while I petitioned his steward.

Proventus was wary and stated the obvious - I was _not_ my father - but gratefully - as I had hoped - Jarl Balgruuf intervened.

"Proventus, I am not opposed to her scheme," he mused from his throne. "I even see merit in it."

We turned to him. Proventus was clearly surprised that the Jarl had taken an interest in the negotiation. "My Jarl?"

He was watching me, his manner relaxed but his eyes sharp. "I see greatness in you, Celeste," he continued openly, idly, then glanced away, casually resting his arm on the side of his throne.

"Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf," I dipped my head as my heart fluttered. What, exactly, did he expect of me?

As though he could sense my discomfort, the corner of his mouth lifted and he turned his eyes toward the hearth. "Do not be afraid. It pleases me that Samuel's daughter might someday consider Whiterun to be her home; that is all."

"But of course," Proventus bowed, his voice steadier; moderate. "If the Jarl has no opposition, we can certainly do business. In fact, I know just the place," he held his hand up in realisation, then told me to wait while he collected the portfolio.

With a swiftness that made my head spin a little, matters were settled over the acquisition of a small, vacant cottage next to his daughter's shop. Within the hour, I had left Dragonsreach with a weighty envelope.

I met Lydia and Lucia in the Mare's common room and, still a little overwhelmed, shared the good news.

Lydia gaped. "You...already? It's ours?"

I nodded; pleased to see Lucia was not only clean but also wearing a new dress, thick stockings, and sturdy, sensible shoes. I tried to swallow my elation, but couldn't stop grinning after I slid the envelope across the table to Lydia. In it were several keys, papers for us to sign, and instructions on where to transfer the gold.

Lucia frowned, glancing between us cautiously. "What's happening?"

Lydia mustn't have told her what I had been out arranging. I flashed my smile Lydia's way. As she was to become the girl's guardian – no, _mother_ , I would leave the honour to her.

"Once the money has been transferred, Proventus will update the deed," I explained, nodding toward the keys. "But he said we could move in right away. It's titled 'Breezehome', and is next to Warmaiden's."

Lydia opened the envelope and peered inside, glancing at me uncertainly. " _We_? So, he _knows_ the house will be mine, and still agreed to it?"

I half shrugged, not wanting to mention the Jarl's intervention. "Proventus understands that you will live there. It's hardly his business," I rolled my eyes. "Your name will be on the legal documents, right next to mine."

Lydia sat back, apparently speechless, and her eyes widened.

But Lucia spoke up, this time a little sadly. "You bought a house?"

"Lydia has," I gave a pointed, prompting glance to the housecarl.

Lydia nodded, recovering smoothly as she turned to the little girl. "Celeste has secured me the home I thought I would never own. I didn't mention it earlier, in case nothing came of it," she admitted, then faltered, but the uncertainty was gone in a flash as her eyes brightened.

She reached into the envelope, and when she withdrew, a key was in her grasp. She wordlessly slid it sideways, leaving it in front of Lucia.

She stared at the key for a beat, then glanced up to Lydia expectantly. "I don't understand," she wavered, though the tears in her eyes and quiver to her bottom lip told me that she understood more than she was letting on, but didn't dare to hope.

Lydia laughed softly, but behind it I caught a nervousness I hadn't seen in the woman before. "I was _wondering_ ," she began with a tilt of her head; the collection of braids brushed her shoulder; "if you would like to live there with me? We could look out for each other."

Lucia burst into tears, making both Lydia and I jump. Before either of us could attempt to comfort her, she darted out of her seat and threw her arms around Lydia's neck. The words "thank you" were discernible through her heavy sobs.

While Lydia laughed and hugged Lucia, I sat back and turned away, smiling as a tickle crept into my throat. This happiness - this hope - I was grateful to have been a part of it. I wanted to give them some privacy, but I couldn't leave until we'd signed the papers and delivered them back to Dragonsreach in exchange for the deed.

After Lucia composed herself we did just that, and before noon, we unlocked the snug little cottage and got to work. It was dusty with disuse, and near empty of furniture - but with a little light and love, they would make this house a home.

Lucia was _bouncing_ with excitement. Lydia tasked her with opening all of the windows to circulate air while she and I worked on lighting the hearth.

"How did your meeting with Farengar go?" she asked idly - _too_ idly - once the wood had taken hold.

I sighed, sitting back and staring at the flames. During the excitement of procuring Breezehome, I'd been able to put Farengar out of my mind.

"That bad?" Lydia laughed kindly.

"It was frustrating," we sat on the floor around the hearth as there was no other seating. "I told him everything, and he gave me little in return. He's asked me to retrieve an artefact, called the Dragonstone, before he will tell me any more."

Lydia's brows crossed. "A retrieval mission? That doesn't make any sense."

"I know," I agreed, exasperated. "But, according to Farengar, only one who can understand the dragon tongue might retrieve it. As though I _wanted_ to be able to hear what the monster in Helgen was saying."

Lydia paused, but said nothing. She frowned with her eyes determinedly fixed on the embers as she prodded them.

"What is it?" I watched her suspiciously. " _This_ means something to you?"

Lydia replaced the poking stick. "He's testing you," she admitted.

"Yes," I nodded, pushing on. "But for what? Why would I make something like this up?"

Lydia sighed, sitting back onto her knees as she faced me. She opened her mouth, but after a pause, and an uncertain blink, she merely sighed.

Now _she_ was making me nervous. "Please," I asked quietly. "I don't understand any of this."

Lydia recovered and nodded. "I know. And it sounds like that's what Farengar is counting on. Where are you to find this Dragonstone?" she asked warily.

"Bleak Falls Barrow."

" _What_?" Lydia exploded, emerald eyes flashing.

"What's wrong with Bleak Falls Barrow?" I leaned back. "Isn't it just a dry old ruin?"

Lydia stood, shaking her head as she paced to the downstairs window and gripped the sill. With a deep breath, she tuned her eyes up to the sky.

Hastening to my feet, I joined her, glancing out, in case my answers were outside. There was a vacant plot of land, and Belethor's shop beyond.

I turned back, trying to meet Lydia's gaze instead. "If you know anything that might help me, just _tell me_ ," I pleaded.

She grit her teeth and turned back to me, full of anger, though I didn't feel as though it was directed at me. "He's testing to see if you're Dragonborn," she spat, throwing her hand up in annoyance as she turned back to the open window.

I paled. "That's... _ridiculous_ ," I stuttered.

The notion was; the test was not. Why I hadn't realised that was _exactly_ what Farengar was insinuating? Perhaps because I had never considered the absurdity – my blood and soul were my own, not...a dragon's! I was a _bard_ ; I sang _songs_ about ancient Dragonborn heroes; from dragon slayers who could drink in the power of the creatures they downed, to the Septim line dating back to Saint Alessia.

Lydia stared out, but seemed to look at nothing. "He's an idiot," she continued through a mouthful of clenched teeth. "Even if you _are_ Dragonborn, he cannot expect you to survive the Barrow, given...who you are."

She turned back to the house and let out a frustrated breath of air.

I felt faint and followed her movements, resting my hand on the sill so I wouldn't fall. "Survive?" I swallowed; my throat thick.

Lydia moved back to the hearth but turned to me suddenly, placing her hands on her hips. "You're not going in there alone. I'll come with you. Just -" she nodded around the cottage. "Give me a few days, to set things up here for Lucia."

I shook my head - and wished I hadn't at once - my head swam with stars.

"He said I had to retrieve the stone personally," I wavered, "and that he'd know if I didn't."

"And I'll make sure you're the first person to touch it," Lydia countered, her green gaze narrowing. "But you will need somebody with you, to make sure you _reach_ the Dragonstone."

I bit my bottom lip. A silence fell between us.

Lucia thundered downstairs before I had mustered a response. "All the windows are open! The rooms up there are _so_ big!" she said cheerily. She looked so hopeful, so happy, so _different_ to the meek little urchin who had flinched when I had offered her a slice of pie the night before that I found myself welling up.

Lydia turned to Lucia with a wide smile, recovering instantly. "Great. The next job..." she considered. "Water, from the well, for a pot of tea. That might make it feel a bit more like home, even if we don't have any proper furniture," she wrinkled her nose.

"I'll do it! I saw a bucket out front!" Lucia spoke up eagerly, racing off. The front door clicked closed behind her before we could reply.

I glanced to Lydia and the air between us darkened. "I'm not taking you away from her - be it now, or in a few days," I told her with no room for negotiation. "And with that being the case, I see no reason to remain in Whiterun," I held my chin higher. "In fact, I would rather get it over with, and have my answers from Farengar sooner." Resolve settled within me, much in the same way my decision to journey to Cyrodiil had.

Lydia flashed me a worried, exasperated look, pursing her lips, but I wasn't done.

"As for whatever waits for me in Bleak Falls Barrow...well. There are mercenaries for hire in town, aren't there?" I proposed. If I didn't _make_ myself be reasonable, logical, I _would_ crumble.

Lydia looked torn; her eyes sad and her mouth turned down. "You will _pay_ someone to watch your back?"

"Why not?" I supplied easily, glancing toward Belethor's shop through the window. "Belethor told me I would have access to my money granted some time today, or tomorrow," I reminded her. "As soon as I have it, I'll make for Bleak Falls Barrow."

–

"What do you mean, _frozen_?" I thundered.

Belethor held up his hands; a gesture I was becoming familiar with as he passed responsibility off to anyone but himself; the cost of an item being determined by its apparent _rareness_ ; credit being unavailable owing to the war.

And now...

"Nothing I can do about it, darling. It's all in the letter," he motioned toward the slip of paper again.

I grasped the note in both hands and read furiously as the waves of anger coursed through me. It was from my family's lawyer.

 _Dear Miss Passero,_

 _I regret to inform you that an order has been given by the Imperial Legion to freeze your bank account on the basis of an incident which they say has yet to be resolved. Our advice would be to return to Solitude and settle the matter personally, after which we have no doubt that your funds shall be given the authorisation required to be released. Until that time, I am unable to provide any lines to the Passero estate in your, or your sister's names._

I crumpled to my knees; my head sank into my lap and I groaned. _No._ This was _impossible_. _Everything_ I had planned counted on being able to access my money. I had used nearly _half_ of Alvor and Sigrid's money and I _needed_ to hire someone to accompany me to Bleak Falls Barrow.

"Hey, you don't look so great. I have potion that might settle your nerves?" Belethor offered. "Selling them for forty-eight gold apiece - a steal, considering what Arcadia charges for _her_ muck-"

I ignored him. How could I have been so _stupid_? Of course the Legion had frozen my accounts after the events of Helgen. Despite of Hadvar's intentions, this was unequivocal proof that the Legion _did_ want to locate me, or make me go to them.

 _Giselle will be furious._

Belethor continued to question me, asking if there was anything else he could help with in his smarmy tones. I made myself stand, and shook my head. Wordlessly, I left his shop; stared around the marketplace, not really seeing it; listless.

 _Hadvar is going to speak for you._ A hint of warmth made my otherwise hollow chest flutter. So, once again, Hadvar was to be my lifeline, my hope. _He will explain what happened to the Legion, and your account will be released._

Holding onto this thought, I trudged towards Breezehome, calculating how long it might be before I heard from him. He might not have reached Solitude yet. Once he did, he would need time to recover from his journey, then more time to report for duty. If he arrived in Solitude tonight, he might speak about the Helgen incident, and my involvement, tomorrow morning.

And then what? Certainly they would not need to speak for days about it. Assuming all was resolved by tomorrow evening, Hadvar's letter detailing the outcome might arrive in Riverwood the day after.

I stilled in the middle of the street, closing my eyes with a pang as I realised; I would _have_ to return to Hadvar's family to await his letter before I could do _anything_ else. Which meant I would have to repay the funds I had borrowed under the presumption I'd be able to replace it before I returned.

I needed money, and fast.

Turning back to the marketplace, I resolved to sell the few potions I had, and the spell tome. They wouldn't be worth 236 gold, but they would be a start.

As I walked, the offer of a contract with the Companions pressed against me. _You'll be well paid,_ Vilkas had called out.

I shook my head roughly; I could not accept a contract with the Companions, only to leave them the moment I had the money to repay Alvor and Sigrid. It wasn't the way a residency worked. And it would be impertinent to seek out a second night's performance, after refusing to consider their more permanent, generous offer. I did not want to damage my reputation as a bard, regardless of what lay in my future.

I sold the potions to the local apothecary, bringing my goal down to 206. But Arcadia had no interest in the spell book, and suggested I take it to Farengar; he would be the only person in Whiterun who might be interested in buying such a thing.

"Or Belethor," she gave me an apologetic half-shrug. "He'll try sell _anything_ on for a profit. Though, he'll not give you as much as Farengar would for it."

Thanking her, I left, and decided to keep the spell book on me for the time being.

As the sun set on my second evening in Whiterun, I slunk back to Breezehome. Lydia told me there would always be a bed for me there, and I took her up on the offer, feigning happiness, humour and delight as she and Lucia told me of their plans for the small, cozy abode.

Once Lucia had gone to bed – Lydia had arranged bedrolls while I'd been otherwise occupied – Lydia turned on me, her eyes hard.

"What happened?" she demanded.

I huffed across the hearth, frustrated that I wasn't able to mask my emotions. I needed help, but I didn't want her to leave Lucia to accompany me to Bleak Falls Barrow. If she died, Lucia would have nobody for a second time. But I could see no alternative; either I had to take her up on her offer, or ignore Farengar's request for the time being.

"You're not going to believe this," I began.

In the end, I told her the whole of my story. It was a bit of a round-about journey, but she asked questions throughout, and though tired and defeated, I answered everything. I let her read the letter from my lawyer, told her about the money I owed Alvor and Sigrid, and explained about the letter I was waiting on from Hadvar. I told her about the night the High King had been killed, all about my parent's murders, my capture at the border, and the incident at Helgen.

When I was done, Lydia stood and stepped past me. My eyes followed her, but I remained where I lay; on my back, beside the hearth fire.

She dug around in her pack for a while, then returned and held out a coin pouch. I simply stared at it, overwhelmed by defeat.

"No protesting," she warned sternly.

"I'm not taking your money, Lydia," I sighed.

"Yes, you are," she knelt beside me, placing the coin pouch resolutely on the flat of my tummy. "This will solve your problem," she explained simply. "There's about 600 septims in there. That'll be enough to repay Alvor and Sigrid, and buy someone to take you through Bleak Falls Barrow. If you barter with the mercenary, maybe promise them a share of any loot, you might even be able to buy yourself some armour with what's left."

Sitting up to face her, I crossed my legs and stared at the pouch in my lap. "You don't have to do this," I frowned at it. "I will find a way, I just need-"

"Time?" Lydia cut in stubbornly, crossing her arms. "Which is exactly what you _don't_ have. Look, consider it a reward, if you like, for the part you played in securing Breezehome - beautifully, I might add."

"No way," I glanced up, wrinkling my nose at her. "If I _do_ take it, consider it a loan. I _will_ regain access to my account, and you _will_ have your money back."

"If that helps you accept it now, then we have a deal," Lydia held out her hand.

My chest swelled as I stared at her outstretched hand - she really _had_ just solved my problem. She was essentially _investing_ in me, perhaps out of respect for my father, but still. Lydia made me feel capable of what Farengar had made me believe I would fail at. If nothing else, I would go to Bleak Falls Barrow and return with the Dragonstone to make Lydia proud.

Laughing at the trust we had inspired in one another, and swallowing back tears, I ignored her hand and hugged her instead. Words formed in my mind and scattered when I tried to speak them - but perhaps no words were adequate.

She laughed, hugging back, and then I laughed again, and then we were both laughing; a relief in the wake of my terrible, winding tale, and despite the anxiety of the upcoming journey to Bleak Falls Barrow, and what I might discover there.

–

After a surprisingly restful sleep around the hearth in Breezehome, I had a simple, pleasant breakfast with Lydia and Lucia, then left for Riverwood.

I had toyed with hiring one of the Companions to accompany me, but Lydia had informed me they didn't work that way; they would insist on leaving me behind, and carry out the contract on their own. She had told me there were only two mercenaries in Whiterun; Uthgerd, the fierce woman being wooed by Mikael that evening in the Mare, and a mer named Janessa, who charged double whenever a job took her underground. I would never be able to afford her.

And so I set out for Riverwood by myself, praying to the Divines that there would be a mercenary for hire at the inn there.

I had worried about being tied to one place, but I felt oddly conflicted when I left Whiterun, and consoled myself with the thought of seeing Alvor, Sigrid and Dorthe in a few hours. It was silly of me to feel a connection to a town I barely knew, but in three days, I had made friends and faced enemies, talked and performed, laughed and raged, and discovered so much about it, its people, and myself. I had even signed my name to a house!

Traversing the outer roads of Whiterun, I hummed _King Farangel's Beer Ballad_ ; a silly, simple little tune set in Wayrest. How had Giselle taken the news of our account being frozen? I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of her reaction. She would be fine, of course - she had our grandparents to provide for her, until the matter was settled. But the _look_ on her face would have been almost worth the inconvenience.

My pack was extremely light; I carried only gold and the three necklaces I was yet to sell for Alvor. I still meant to, but they had fallen to the bottom of an increasingly lengthening priority list. I had left the practise lute with Lydia, knowing that a day or two without playing would weaken my calluses again, but couldn't justify taking the blasted thing where I was going.

 _And what of that; where you're going? To undertake Farengar's test to determine if you are dragonborn or not?_

I huffed again at the notion. It didn't weigh on me if I was honest; too ridiculous to consider in light of all that had happened in the past month. No wonder Farengar had been giving me such pointed, disbelieving looks, if that's what he believed was going on. A young, weak bard made the champion of Akatosh, and a legendary dragon-slayer? He had told me that he hadn't slept much the night before; he'd probably been wrestling with his faith, wondering why the Divines would, in this regard, have a sense of humour generally attributed to a Daedric Prince.

The walk to Riverwood was quiet and uneventful; a mirror of my journey to Whiterun several days earlier. Again, I avoided the main road whenever I neared any structures or ruins. Before midday, I stepped onto the bridge and slowed, glancing over the river and the sweet town nestled around it.

 _Age of Aggression_ surfaced and I smiled as I leant on the bridge. A chilled spray from below brushed my cheeks, cooling my flush as I remembered the joyful, intense moment Hadvar and I had shared here. I watched the crystal blue river as it surged and foamed under the bridge, lit up by the shimmer of tiny fish and larger salmon as the sun light caught their scales.

Where was Hadvar at that very moment? Had he reached Solitude? Had he been reassigned; spoken for me? Had he been successful – was my name already cleared?

I pushed off the bridge, shaking my head at myself. It was pointless to speculate. I settled on a final, not-so-useless thought as I continued on to Riverwood; Hadvar would have much preferred to be where I was right now. And if I was honest, I would have liked to be coming back to him, too.

I made for the inn, deciding to secure my unknowing companion in case they cost more than I expected. They alone would need to combat any foes that stood in our way within Bleak Falls Barrow, and I was prepared to pay whatever they asked for their services.

* * *

 _A/n: Thanks so much for the reviews, again - utterly relieved that this isn't a long, dreary, boring tale for others. I'm enjoying writing it so much and it's wonderful to think that others are looking forward to where Celeste will go next!_


	15. To Acquire What One Desires

_Chapter 15: To Acquire What One Desires_

The gateway arched over the main street into Riverwood was crowded with soldiers. My heart skipped a beat when I sighted them clustered around a campfire beside the entryway; had _war_ come to _Riverwood_? Because surely, the Legion would not have chased _me_ here.

But - no, on closer inspection, they wore Whiterun's colours, _not_ the Imperial Legion's. With a quiet laugh, I realised that I _had_ in fact been the cause of these particular guards, and was cheered in the knowledge that Jarl Balgruuf hadn't delayed in sending his promised legion.

The new guards paid me no mind as I entered the township; they were watching for dragons, not people. Unquestioned and unhindered, it wasn't long before I found myself bounding up the steps to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

While built of wood and thatch like all the other buildings, the Sleeping Giant Inn looked like any other tavern within; stone floor, large central hearth, tables along the walls, and resident bard sitting across from the entrance, waiting for somebody to pay him to perform.

He was cradling a lute – and quite a nice one at that. He looked up when the door clicked closed behind me with a warm, gentle smile.

 _This must be Sven._ I nodded a wordless greeting across the way to the attractive blonde Nord.

I didn't recognise him, and he didn't recognise me, but that was of no great surprise. One bard did not know all others, and Sven looked like he was about thirty, so he would have been at the college when I was a girl. He was slim; slimmer than most of his kinsmen, with long hair flowing and swept back from his chiselled jaw.

 _First impressions count,_ a lesson from the college assailed me. _Prepare your exterior as you do your voice; with precision and purpose. Tell the audience which emotions they might expect, and reward their astuteness by delivering confirmation of their cleverness through song. Braids and warpaint for drama, curls and rosy cheeks for humour, long sweeping hair and a focus on the eyes for romantic._

"Greetings, traveller," he continued to smile placidly. "Let me guess; just passing through?"

 _So he's going for romantic, but fails to woo or flirt with clients. A romantic bard, already in love,_ I concluded, amused by the riddle. Though after Mikael's treatment, it was a manner I found welcome. "That's right. Not stopping or long."

"Always the way in these dark days," Sven glanced away, motioning further into the common room. "Orgnar can organise lunch, and Delphine a bed, if you change your mind."

I glanced toward the bar. There was a man and woman in conversation; he behind it and she leaning on one side. Neither seemed to have noticed my arrival. I frowned as I glanced around the rest of the inn; there was a lumberjack-type with thick red hair, guzzling from a tankard, and a white-haired man taking his lunch at another table.

That was it.

I turned back to Sven, whose eyes were trained on his instrument. "Excuse me but...where are the mercenaries for hire?" I asked in an undertone.

Sven threw me a curious look. "Not in Riverwood, sweetheart. Any mercenary setting up here would die of starvation or boredom, _long_ before they landed a job. You'll have better luck in Rorikstead, or Whiterun."

Perhaps he noticed how my face paled as he spoke, for his voice grew a little more sympathetic as he continued. "But, check with Orgnar. He knows most of what's going on in these parts; might know of someone nearby looking for that kind of work."

"Thank you," I murmured. With a deep, fortifying breath, I turned away and dragged my feet toward the other end of the tap room.

"Any time," he replied idly over the top of gently-plucked notes.

My heart thudded, hard and fast in my chest as I approached the sullen-looking, dark-haired man standing behind the bar. What I was going to do? Even if there were no _mercenaries_ as such in Riverwood – _why hadn't I secured someone in Whiterun?!_ – surely _somebody_ would know how to use a sword or bow or axe and be interested in taking my – _Lydia's –_ money to accompany me to the Barrow.

The barkeep was still talking to the blonde woman, whose words and stern tone told me that she was the owner, and he an employee. She was Breton, but wore a very typically Nord dress of blue with a cinched tan bodice, discussing a shipment of ale that was due to arrive and whether or not to put it into immediate rotation. The pair quietened and turned to me in unison when I leant gently on the bar.

"Hello," I smiled, casting both a friendly smile. "Sven told me to ask you about mercenaries?"

The blonde woman – Delphine, Sven had named her – turned around properly, her face full of confusion - but the large Orgnar sidled closer first.

"Haven't seen a mercenary 'round these parts for years, lass," he reached under the bar with a frown, then withdrew a handful of notes. "Let's see what we've got here," he flicked through them. "Bounty...bounty...miners...thievery..." he muttered.

I glanced between him and the notes. He frowned all the while, reading to himself. The hard eyes of the publican were still on me, and while I waited I glanced at her again, offering a small, apologetic smile.

The judgement in her eyes burned me, but also prompted me to speak; useless babble, to fill the weighty silence. "I'm sorry for interrupting you," I told her meekly. "I've never had to hire anybody before, so I'm not sure how it's meant to be done," I admitted.

 _Great,_ I winced. _Why don't you tell them your life story while you're at it?_

Delphine openly looked me up and down. "After a bodyguard for some fool's errand, I assume?"

I nodded automatically, oddly relieved to discover she had a voice, despite it being hard and sharp, like the edge of a knife. I tilted my head to the side as I reconsidered; could I call Farengar a fool?

"Something like that," I answered eventually.

"War's made travelling all manner of unsafe, hasn't it?" Orgnar mused in a bored tone that told me he was delivering an oft-spoken, generic response.

Before I could reply, he shook his head and stowed the sheaf of papers back under the bar. "Sorry, lass. There's nobody after mercenary work for miles. Best you try in another town."

"But I don't have time for that," I shook my head desperately.

Orgnar held his hands out and shrugged. "Either you make the time to find someone, or you journey alone."

"Where are you headed?" Delphine asked swiftly, almost cutting Orgnar off; her voice still a bark of efficiency and barely-restrained frustration.

I shook my head futilely, turning away from the pair. "It doesn't matter. Thank you, for your time," I added belatedly. There was no point in being rude, after all.

I could feel their eyes on me for a moment longer as I walked toward the exit, staring at the floor and commanding myself to practise my breathing exercises. Then Orgnar asked Delphine something about rotating the mead barrels, and I was alone in my plight again.

I felt dazed as I stood on the top step of the inn and stared out at the river, and at nothing. My mind churned through the options. Go to the Barrow alone and likely never return; find a mercenary in another town; give up the Dragonstone entirely and never return to Whiterun.

 _There must be a way_ , I schooled.

The rhythmic _tink tink_ of metal meeting metal filtered through my fog of despair, hooking my attention. I grinned, recognising it and turning toward the sound with relief, locating the low rooftop, slim verandah, and beyond, the glow of the forge.

Before I decided anything more regarding this Bleak Falls Barrow business, I would pay Hadvar's family the money I had earned for them, and tell him about the contract with Warmaiden's.

–

Alvor caught sight of me from his seat by the anvil and cast aside what he was working on. His brood of concentration transformed into a wide, welcoming grin.

He shook my hand and quietly thanked me for speaking to the Jarl; the guards at the gate were evidence of my success. Ushering me toward the house, he asked if I was hungry.

I let him lead. I hadn't eaten, and I was more than willing to exchange gold and talk away from the eyes and ears of the town.

As the door had closed behind us, Alvor's booming voice _did_ surface, echoing around the small upper level. "Sigrid! Dorthe! Celeste's here!"

I startled at the shriek from below – Dorthe, I presumed. A clatter of small shod footfalls landed on the stairs, then the tall, mousy-haired girl was on the upper level, grinning widely at me. "You're back! You'll _never_ believe what happened after you-"

" _Dorthe_ ," Alvor cut her off cautiously.

"What?" I swivelled to Alvor; sudden fear tightened my chest. "What happened after I left?"

" _Nothing_ happened," he offered a seat and threw his daughter a warning look.

I sat, but turned on Dorthe as she drew closer. "Did you see the dragon?" I asked hurriedly.

Dorthe crossed her brows a moment before realising – remembering – then shook her head and giggled. "No – that's not what I meant. It was Hadvar, he-"

" _Dorthe_ ," Alvor growled, rougher this time.

The girl rolled her eyes, sat back in her seat and pouted.

I gripped the edge of the table, confused. Panic drifted through me like tendrils of smoke, winding around my heart and squeezing - but nobody was reacting as though anything was _wrong_.

"Please?" I asked Alvor quietly. "What's happened? Is Hadvar all right?"

"Nothing is wrong. He is well," Alvor dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"You're not pestering Celeste _already_ are you?" Sigrid's voice sounded from the landing.

I turned to regard her, feeling anxious despite Alvor's reassurances. If Hadvar _was_ well, then what was Dorthe bursting to tell me? It couldn't be bad news - could it? - but that meant it was personal in nature. Perhaps they'd received a letter from him, and he had mentioned something about our farewell dance on the bridge?

 _Why would he do that,_ I panicked?

"I'm not!" the girl insisted defensively. "Why can't I tell her what Hadvar did?"

"You _know_ why – we've _talked_ about this," Sigrid cut in, joining us at the table and placing a hand on my shoulder in welcome. "It's so good to see you again. Apologies for my daughter worrying you. Hadvar is _fine_."

With a rush of heat to my cheeks, I prayed that they _didn't_ know what had occurred between us at the bridge out of town. Despite conducting ourselves in broad daylight, it was a private moment that was all the more precious for _being_ private.

"All right," I accepted steadily, glancing to Alvor with a recovered smile as I remembered the money and potential contract. "Then I will share my news."

I retrieved my pack, digging inside for the coin pouches while Sigrid took a seat beside me. "You sold everything?"

I nodded as my hands fell to the necklaces, and changed my mind. "All but the silver work, and that's my fault," I explained with a hasty glance Alvor's way; I didn't want him to think nobody had wanted them. "Whiterun was...complicated," I trailed off as my eyes widened. "I held the necklaces back. The shopkeeper there was _awful_ and would never have appreciated them. Let me find the right buyer."

"The leatherwork, then?" Alvor asked in a low, hesitant rumble. "You were able to offload it?"

Withdrawing the coin pouches and placing them on the table, I smiled. "Adrianne Avenicci bought the lot, for 550," I began counting it out.

" _How_ much?" Dorthe shrieked.

Sigrid laughed and Alvor looked stunned. Dorthe's wide eyes fell to the coin pouches.

"That is _excellent_ news," Sigrid rested her hand on my shoulder again as she rose and moved to the hearth.

"You have done me a _great_ service, lass," Alvor added with a depth of gratitude to his tone.

"Can I help count it?" Dorthe scrambled to my side.

I nodded, handing her one of the two coin pouches. "Some of this money is mine," I inwardly winced – _Lydia's._ "I need to hire a mercenary when I go," I added idly. "But it was easier to put all of the money in one place to travel."

"You were granted access to your accounts!" Sigrid called out warmly as she approached with the teapot and several mugs. "I'm so relieved for you! I wondered if that was why you had been delayed."

I was about to shake my head, and thought better of it. "As I said – Whiterun was _complicated_ ," I cleared my throat, focussing on creating piles of gold in front of me. Dorthe glanced at me, mirroring my actions; counted the septims into piles of ten.

"A mercenary?" there was a frown in Alvor's voice.

Grateful for a change in subject, because I _did not_ want to tell them about my account being frozen by the Legion, I smiled reassuringly. "Yes, at least, I hope so, very soon. Unfortunately, I had no luck finding anyone at the Sleeping Giant," I half shrugged, busying myself with the gold again. "Sven suggested Rorikstead, which I suppose I will try next," I sighed, "as those for hire in Whiterun weren't exactly...suited to the task."

I was talking idly. In the welcome comfort of their home, I had let my guard down without even noticing.

"Sorry," I shook my head, trying to laugh it off for fear of worrying them. "I'm rambling."

Sigrid placed a mug of tea in front of me. "Where are you headed that requires a mercenary? Rorikstead is a fair journey in itself – further than Whiterun."

Her tone was light and conversational, but I caught her concern behind it.

I _really_ didn't want to tell them. Lydia had reacted badly to Bleak Falls Barrow, and I _knew_ Hadvar's family would respond in much the same way. They wouldn't like it, and would want to know more. And _that_ would lead me to Farengar's unspoken suspicion that I was Dragonborn.

"I'm..." I created another pile of 10, weighing my response. I had grown curious of the fact myself. Not that I had any idea what being Dragonborn might mean, in this day and age; I certainly wasn't equipped, physically or emotionally, to become a _dragon slayer_ , no matter what happened in Bleak Falls Barrow.

" _And then, I'd tell them the truth. I find that's generally the best thing to do."_

I smiled at the memory. Had Hadvar only spoken those words to me days ago? It felt as though months had passed since we had spoken.

I glanced back to Alvor and Sigrid, sat across from me now. "I need to go to Bleak Falls Barrow," I admitted soberly.

With a clatter, Dorthe knocked over a few piles of coins.

"You can't!" she cried as the coins scattered; her eyes, bright and wavering, fixed on mine. "It's full of draugr!"

Nerves mingled with panic as I knelt to recover the fallen septims. Sigrid and Alvor ducked under the table to help.

 _Draugr!?_

"I've entered into an agreement," I told her hurriedly, trying to convince _myself_ that everything was fine. "The Jarl's mage has requested that I retrieve something in there for him."

 _Stop panicking. That's why you're hiring a mercenary._

Sigrid and Alvor cast each other worried glances as they helped retrieve the gold, but said nothing.

Dorthe didn't have their restraint. "No, Celeste, please!" her voice trembled as she knelt down beside me, the coins forgotten as she grasped my hand in her small fingers. "It's too dangerous!"

"Give her time to explain, Dorthe," Alvor rumbled kindly, his hazel eyes meeting mine with the same, hard look I'd seen there when Hadvar had first told him about the dragon; advising me to delay explaining the full of the matter no further.

I nodded a wordless, grim acknowledgement, rising and dropping the collected money onto the uncounted pile. The moment Sigrid had taken her seat, Dorthe abandoned her task and sat on her mother's lap, staring at me with anguish in her eyes.

I counted out the money to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to look at. "I know it'll be dangerous," I admitted quietly. "That's why I'm hiring someone to go with me. Someone who can clear the way," I shrugged; the coins in my hand _chinked_ together.

Silence met my words. I bought time, glancing over the piles of coins, determining that it was all there. I put the remainder away, calculating that I might have almost 400 septims to pay a mercenary with.

After that, I had no excuse not to look at them, and did so with an apologetic smile. "I've given my word I will do this," I affirmed quietly.

Dorthe looked up to her mother; uncertainty in her eyes. Sigrid's brow was knitted with concern. Alvor seemed both confused and grave. The silence continued.

"Say something, please," I spoke in a low tone, then reached out to grasp my tea; another welcome distraction to keep my hands from fidgeting. It was pleasantly warm, and the sip I took was just as soothing.

Alvor's eyes widened as he exhaled and shook his head, as though he didn't know where to begin.

"All right," Sigrid schooled her expression and nodded, shuffling to adjust her daughter. "While I don't understand what might have possessed you to enter into such an agreement," she sounded slightly curt, "you're a grown woman, Celeste, and it is not my place to-" she cut herself off, pursing her lips.

She was trying to stop from saying something she might regret.

Alvor spoke up, his tone more measured than his wife's. "Have you considered what Hadvar will think of such a scheme?" he asked delicately. "After all you went through to escape Helgen-?"

I nodded swiftly. "I can imagine _exactly_ what he would say," I lifted my eyebrows briefly. "But there's...a lot riding on going. I can't give in to fear."

I met Alvor's eyes, feeling exposed, and realised what it was that I saw in his expression. It was disappointment – and not aimed at me, but the situation, as though the world had once again let him down by asking this of me.

I was taken back by the look; it conveyed a trust in me that I wondered if I deserved. I was moved that I had somehow managed to earn it.

And Hadvar...oh, Hadvar. I shook my head. What would he say? Would he try to stop me from going; try to protect me from the unknown evils of the world by preventing me from living through them? Regardless of what had passed between us, that would never do. Even if we _had_ promised anything to one another, which we hadn't; I was not to be caged to stay safe and ignorant while others fought and died for their freedom.

 _Tell them; just...a little more delicately than that._

"I do acknowledge your concern," I recovered with a respectful tilt of my head; the weight of embarrassment I had been feeling lifting in the face of their open kindness. I was left with a resolve; not only to keep my word, but to rise up and be brave, for those in front of me, and those who were absent. "And yes, you are right. Hadvar would not like this. But he is not here," I held my head up higher and sighed. "Neither are thousands more men and women, who are doubtlessly better equipped to fulfil the Jarl's mage's request. They are away, at war, and so all manner of strange tasks fall on our shoulders in their absence," I nodded with determination, trying to convince myself as much as them.

"Celeste..." Sigrid started delicately.

I wasn't finished. "I may not be able to fight my way around draugr or bandits, or whatever else Skyrim decides to throw in my way," I continued, my intention swelling like a victorious song in my heart, making me feel bold. "But I can learn. Better to learn to face the world, than to run and hide from everything and everyone. I'm not afraid," I told them with conviction, settling my gaze on Sigrid.

She smiled somewhat sadly, turning her eyes to her husband. "Another one too brave for their own boots."

This made Alvor chuckle, though it was with some exasperation, and the exchange made me laugh a little, too.

 _They mean him._

Of course they did. I smiled knowingly across the table at the little family, as Alvor rose to his feet.

"If you are determined to do this, then it is not our place to dissuade you. And if you are in need of protection – I would like to introduce you to somebody," he tilted his head toward the door.

I stood, glowing. "You know of somebody who I could hire to come with me?"

Alvor half-smiled. "Perhaps. Let's go talk to him."

–

Alvor introduced me to Faendal, who we found chopping wood by the river side nearby the lumber yard. The smith introduced me to the Bosmer as _Celeste, a family friend_.

I shook hands with Faendal as I inspected him, recalling that I had already heard his name. It was he who Hadvar had arranged to chop wood for the forge in his absence. He wore the common clothes of a farmer, stained with wood sap here and there. After we had exchanged pleasantries he leaned on the handle of his axe, regarding me with sharp, dark, garnet-coloured eyes.

 _Alvor's suggesting I take a lumberjack to Bleak Falls Barrow?_

"Faendal and I - we've been doing a bit of an exchange," Alvor leaned back against a wooden workbench, crossing his arms. "Gotten to talking of late. As it happens, Faendal is an expert marksman."

I glanced back to the Bosmer swiftly, raising my eyebrows in evident interest. _An archer? That's more like it._

He was frowning at Alvor, as though wary of his point. " _Was_ , Alvor. Before I came to Riverwood. I'm more a...hobby hunter," he directed the latter to me as the crease in his brow deepened. "Are you after archery lessons? I...don't really do that any more," he hesitantly shook his head.

I flickered a glance at Alvor, but the smith just raised his eyebrows. So he was leaving the rest to me.

 _If Alvor believes you need Faendel, you must win him._ "While lessons from a Master would be helpful," I smiled thankfully, imbuing my tone with a warmth that I hoped would break through the mer's regret, "I'm seeking one who might be interested in a more...immediate payoff," I faltered. Surely his reaction to the Barrow would be the same as everyone else's.

Faendal's look turned into one of scepticism. "What kind of contract are you talking about?" he asked in a warning tone.

"Security," I replied steadily. "I have an artefact to retrieve, but I have been led to believe that the journey will involve some danger. I have money," I added swiftly.

"She's been asked to go through the Barrow, Faendal," Alvor interjected.

Faendal's garnet eyes widened perceptibly as he turned back to me. "Why would anyone ask a little thing like you to do that?"

"The Jarl's court mage asked me to do it," I spoke quickly, before I lost control of the conversation. "And I have given my word that I will go."

If anything, he grew more dubious. "Who are you to the court mage?"

I shook my head dismissively. "Nobody. I'm a bard-"

"A _bard_?"

"-and I'm as confused about his asking as everyone else," I assured, despite his outburst. "Would you accompany me and clear the way?" I implored. "I have money, and you can have all the loot you like from the Barrow, excepting the artefact I'm seeking."

Faendal paused, considered, then glanced down and shook his head. "Bleak Falls Barrow is not a safe place. You would be better off returning to the Jarl's mage and reminding him of this," Faendal lifted off his axe handle, and stepped past me.

I looked to Alvor for help, but Hadvar's uncle's eyes were on Faendal, and he was frowning.

Faendal returned to his work; placing a log on a chopping block. With a swing of his axe that made the muscles on his arm ripple, he sliced it clean in two with a _thunk._

I startled; in my mind, the Stormcloak in Helgen took place of the log. Staring at the chopping block, my eyes glazed as I heard the dour-faced Imperial Captain instructing me to walk to the block next.

And then the dragon had arrived. Did it realise it had saved me? If...if I _was_ Dragonborn, would...could I have somehow, unconsciously, in my final moments, _called_ it to me?

Was the dragon appearing in Skyrim _my fault?_

Once the idea sprung on me, I _had_ to know. Farengar had told me he would answer my questions once I returned with the Dragonstone, so that was what I had to do.

I jumped again as Faendal's axe split another log down its middle; the sound brought me back to where I was.

"Is 400 gold sufficient?" I licked my lips.

Faendal shook his head as he piled the chopped wood to one side and reached for another log. "I wouldn't do it for 4000. Neither should you," he added pointedly.

"Faendal," Alvor said quietly, reasonably. "There is more to life than chopping wood. When did you last venture outside of Riverwood?"

Faendal cast Alvor an annoyed glance then swung, splitting another branch with a _crack_. Before he could lean down to gather the pieces, I grabbed the pieces and piled them with the others he had already cut. His sharp eyes tracked my movements.

"If you don't want money; what _would_ it take?" I posed desperately.

Faendal waited until I was out of the way before he brought his axe down on the chopping block, and left it there. "That which I _need_ is out of reach. Even for a...bard."

"Tell me," I urged as a hope kindled inside of me. "You don't know the extent of my resources."

Faendal cast a wary glance toward Hadvar's uncle. "Alvor, you might as well get back to your forge. Celeste and I might be a while, negotiating terms," he sighed in defeat.

I grinned gleefully between the pair. Now I was getting somewhere.

Alvor eased off the workbench, chuckling as he shook his head. "My work here is done," he bid us farewell.

"Thank you," I called after him; he raised a hand in reply. "I'll be back as soon as I've settled things here!"

The Bosmer watched Alvor's progress with that suspicious look on his face. I waited for him to talk or turn back to me, or even resume chopping wood, but he didn't shift until Alvor was out of sight.

Then swiftly, he turned to me. "All right. Here's the situation. You help me resolve it, and I'll take you through Bleak Falls Barrow for free."

Heartened, my smiled widened.

He told me of a woman, Camilla, who he'd been in the process of courting when 'the _bard_ ' (Faendal referred to him as scornfully) stepped in and swept her off her feet with his _pretty words_ and _songs_ and _sweeping golden hair_.

I tried not to laugh, schooling my expression into one of empathetic interest as Faendal idly ran a hand over his own ashen mane, tied back into a low ponytail. "I have a plan, but I can't be the one to deliver it," he dug into his pocket and retrieved a small piece of notepaper.

Remaining silent but deeply interested in the complex love triangle, I opened the note.

 _My Dearest Camilla,  
I yearn to have you as my own,  
Washing my linens,  
And my fine blond hair,  
To cook my dinner from my stove,  
And tend to my house while I wander.  
Yours Truly,  
Sven_

A small scoff escaped me and I clamped my free hand to my mouth to muffle it. These were not the words of a bard, and Camilla would be a fool to believe Sven had written it.

"What?" Faendal asked sharply. "Don't you think it will work?"

Swallowing my laughter, I folded the note and feigned calmness. If Faendal wanted to engage in a war of words with Sven, he was hopelessly unmatched. He couldn't have picked a more suitable task for me; this, at least, I was _qualified_ to help him with.

I handed the note back to the elf. "I have a better idea," I replied in a conspiratorial manner. "Love won through treachery has little chance of remaining true," I spun; my flowery words would set up my proposal nicely.

Faendal leaned back. The sharpness of eye softened as he idly tucked the wretched note back into his pocket. I faltered, wondering if I should tell him to destroy it?

"What do you suggest?" he asked, crestfallen.

I smiled encouragingly. "Write Camilla another letter. One I will help you write. If her affections have been swayed by the words of one bard, let us return her to you with the help of another," I held my hands out. "I can write you a letter that will guarantee she doesn't even _look_ at Sven again," I promised big. "What do you think?" I raised my eyebrows, holding one of my hands out, prompting him to shake on it.

His hasty nod surprised me, and he shook my offered hand at once. "All right. But here are my terms," he was suddenly all business; not the jilted lover. "You deliver the letter to Camilla this evening. If she replies tonight instead of going to Sven at the Sleeping Giant, then tomorrow morning, I'll take you through Bleak Falls Barrow to collect your artefact."

I raised my eyebrow at his haste, but couldn't dispute it with regards to my personal quest. "On the condition that you take out any foes before us on the journey."

Faendal grinned widely at me. "Don't worry yourself about that. If you help me win Camilla back, I'll be armed to take on whatever lies in our way."

I wanted to laugh at his bravado, but held off. Instead, we got to business. I didn't doubt that Sven _was_ smitten with whoever Camilla was; the romantic bard, already in love, as I had noted when I had met him. Truth be told, I thought Camilla to be the villain of this piece ,with fickle heart and eye to be swayed so easily between two devotees. I tried not to think too much on it, though, as I knew nothing but Faendal's side of the tale.

And I had a job to do. Even if Sven was in love, I had to hope that he would recover from the loss.

Over the course of the afternoon, Faendal regaled me with stories of Camilla; her virtues and mannerisms and habits. All the reasons he loved her.

While I listened, I couldn't help but smile at the joy talking of the woman brought him. He gave me paper and charcoal, and I noted down some of the things he said verbatim, in case I could use them in the letter. When I had pages filled and a firm idea in my mind of what Camilla looked like through Faendal's eyes, I said farewell to leave him to his job, with the intention of returning to Alvor and Sigrid's to finish mine in solitude.

"Thank you," Faendal stopped chopping wood as I made to leave. "Nobody has ever _helped_ me with this sort of thing before."

I waved at the proof of his love I had scribbled. "There's still a lot to do, but I will try my best. Divines willing you'll have a reply from, if not see her tonight."

"And you tomorrow," Faendal nodded pointedly. "I'll meet you at Alvor's forge at sunup. Be sure to acquire some armour, before we set out," he turned and returned to the chopping block.

–

Things did _not_ go to plan, and as the afternoon wore away, my vexatious panic rose.

I drafted letter after letter from the dining table in Alvor and Sigrid's house, which in hindsight, had not been the best idea to begin with.

Dorthe was insatiably curious about what I was doing, and I didn't feel comfortable telling her about it. Word would get around, and Faendal would be mortified. When she determined I wasn't going to share my writing with her, she started asking me questions about Whiterun; what I'd done there, who I'd met, what the Jarl had been like, and why I suddenly needed to go to Bleak Falls Barrow. I promised I would tell her over dinner, when I could tell her parent's as well. In the back of my mind, I reminded myself to bring up the contract with the Avenicci's tonight, for I'd not had a chance to earlier.

But while Dorthe had accepted my stalling, it was never long before she asked me _another_ question relating to my activities.

When Sigrid appeared at the top of the stairs and asked her daughter to help peel vegetables, the girl retreated to the hearth and started humming contentedly. I schooled my response; felt my relief on the inside. I liked Dorthe a lot, but I had a job to do and time was short.

The quiet was better but still not enough to make the letter to Camilla spring to life. I mused over my words, scribbling out more than I committed to page, my brows perpetually crossed and my own heart, utterly unsatisfied. I tried to write a letter that _I_ would want to receive to no avail. Despite Mikael's _horrible_ jibe in the Bannered Mare, this exercise cast a vivid light on my inexperience in the art of romance. Everything sounded too aloof, or possessive, and just simply not _right_.

 _Scritch scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch._

I shook myself out of my perturbed thoughts to glance at Dorthe peeling, then picked up my materials and stood. "Do you think anyone would mind if I wrote in Hadvar's room? I would like to...consult one of his books," I reached.

Dorthe looked up; an open, honest gaze that made me feel wretched. "Of course not. Mama and I cleaned it up for you while you were away. You may consider it your own."

"Oh!" the guilt intensified. "Thank you. You didn't need to do _that_."

"It was no trouble," she smiled happily, then returned to peeling.

I descended the stairs and traversed the lower hall, bundling my papers in one arm so I could turn the door handle.

It opened and I glanced around the tiny room, unable to suppress a smile, even as a surge of guilt flushed my cheeks. Everything had been dusted and washed; the shield on the wall gleamed, the bed linen was fresh and folded neatly, and a lantern sat on the side bookshelf beside a pitcher of water and a small, ceramic bowl. On the bed a simple, yellow and cream tunic was spread.

The room contained additional furniture of a sort; the Legion armour I had worn from Helgen was arranged on a small dummy in the far corner. I tilted my head at it, wondering at its appearance, but quickly shook the confusion off. Alvor was a smith; they probably had lots of them to display his wares on.

The sight of the armour was welcome, despite what I had endured wearing it, for it meant I wouldn't need to ask Alvor if I could borrow something for my journey to Bleak Falls Barrow tomorrow. _If_ I ever got this blasted letter completed.

Closing the door with a soft click, I hurried in, cast the unfinished notes onto the bed and my writing materials on the side table. The tunic Sigrid had laid out for me caught my eye, and I picked up the hem of the sleeve, inspecting the thick, even stitching. Small yellow flowers were embroidered onto the cuffs; a detail I hadn't noticed at first glance.

I frowned at it. It was not hers; the tunic looked brand new. They didn't need to go to all this trouble for me, but it _was_ so nice to feel welcome. And, perhaps I would be able to write if I cleaned and composed myself first.

I hurriedly washed and dressed, resolving to wash the dress I'd borrowed from Sigrid before I returned it to her. I would _not_ leave it for her to wash.

The new tunic was soft and warm, with simple ties running down either side at the waist to adjust the fit.

As I re-braided my hair loosely to finish my preparations, I glared at the notes in a pile on Hadvar's bed. _No more procrastinating,_ I told myself sternly. I sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the jug, bowl and lantern out of the way so I could write on the side table.

I looked over what I had written so far with a sigh:

 _Beautiful Camilla,  
I miss your melodious voice, the peal of dulcet tones as your lips form my name,  
Your eyes, two forest orbs, brimming with their kind serenity.  
I miss our walks together in the evenings, watching the torchbugs play in the spray of the river as salmon leap and dance between the foam to catch a glimpse of your perfection.  
Honour me with a twilight walk tonight, that we might resume the felicity of honourable courtship.  
Forever yours, your devoted admirer,  
Faendal_

I scrunched my nose at my work. It was dreadful. Awful. If I received such a letter, I would throw it away and avoid whoever had sent it for the rest of my days. There was flattery, but it felt false; memories, but they felt contrived. And at the close, it was begging for her to return to him. It felt weak.

 _Isn't love a weakness?_

I shook my head, irritated as I drew my socked feet up onto the bed to curl underneath me. I rest against the headboard, propped up by Hadvar's pillow. A swift thought reached me, and faltering, absurdly worried about being caught in my folly, I sniffed it quickly. _Clean cotton and soap._ With a sigh, I leaned back and stared at the dark, wood-panelled ceiling, a part of me wishing that Sigrid and Dorthe hadn't been so thorough in their preparations. Despite being away with the Legion for the past three years, the smell of him would have been a small comfort.

Perhaps love _was_ a weakness? Perhaps the letter _was_ suitable? Who was I to judge? I had never received a letter professing love, or anything even close to it in my nineteen years. There had been childhood, my studies, my music, and the Bard's college. Mikael had tried to collect me as a conquest, and had managed to score my first kiss – something I had never told him but _always_ regretted with mortification. Ataf had harboured a crush, unbeknownst to me, until I had short-sightedly and selfishly kissed _him._ And then there was Hadvar, who I had known for a single day, who I felt closer to than my friend from the college. Hadvar's kiss had not made me feel weak; quite the opposite. He had left me with bright hope and courage.

 _Where is he now_ , I wondered? In Solitude? On his way to his new post, or already there? I smiled as a different thought pressed upon me; that he would not expect me to be sitting on his bed now, writing a love letter. I closed my eyes and remembered our farewell encounter; his trembling hand grasped my waist, his fingers curled through my hair, drawing me to him. I remembered the dark, intense storm behind his longing eyes, his soft lips stealing my breaths, and the heady, intoxicating haze that surrounded us.

I shuddered, uncomfortably warm as I opened my eyes and glanced guiltily to the note on my lap. I flushed at where my mind had taken me. Now was not the time to dally, and I wasn't certain that I should be having these sort of thoughts about Hadvar. We had agreed to _write_ to one another.

I read what I had written again but my yearning boiled, my head still full of our goodbye; the bright hope and courage Hadvar had awakened within me. Did this letter inspire hope? Did it promote courage? In a sense, yes, I decided after another careful read. The hope was plain. And perhaps I could use it to rouse courage.

There was only one way to find out. Instead of delivering the letter to Camilla's house, which was above the general store, I walked back to Faendal's chopping block.

The elf was still hard at it, seemingly tireless as log after log split in half and his pile of firewood grew ever higher. I watched him; the sun glinted off his silvery hair as his arm muscles flexed; he brought the axe down again with a _thunk_.

It would never do for me to deliver this note; not if it was to inspire the courage that I felt pure, truthful admiration needed. Faendal must re-write it in his hand, and Camilla must receive it directly from him. I was merely the sieve that had organised his thoughts and feelings, and for it to have the desired effect, he would need to be brave and face her. If love truly thrived on hope and courage, he would be living proof of it.

He seemed confused when he finally noticed me, but leaned on the handle of his axe and waited for me to explain. I passed the note over to him, confident in what I had produced, and detailed how the rest of the evening would need to work.

Faendal was not opposed to the plan. I left him full of nervous confidence by the river side, and he reminded me to be ready to leave Riverwood for the Barrow at dawn.

* * *

 _A/n: This is proving to be a **much** longer story than I anticipated. Thank you so much for sticking with me, wonderful readers and reviewers, and Cake-san, I agree with you! Celeste has no idea what she's getting into, and that's part of the (welcome) challenge with her character; a headstrong, somewhat spoilt girl who can't fight to save herself, in the wilds of Skyrim (and Dovahkiin no less). The next chapter might take a while to flesh out; the Barrow is - naturally - not going to be all smooth sailing. _


	16. Improvisation

_Chapter 16: Improvisation_

I hummed contentedly as I tried to keep myself from skipping like a child all the way back to Alvor and Sigrid's house.

I had _done_ it. Sure, Faendal still had to deliver the note and the fickle Camilla respond as we hoped, and yes, Bleak Falls Barrow was still before us, but I was taking the small win for what it was. I'd written the letter and almost certainly secured somebody who could fight to accompany me to the ruin. Faendal was no mercenary, but I trusted Alvor. That, and the sheer tirelessness of the mer who had chopped wood all day was good enough for me.

I found Alvor standing over his workbench hammering rivets into a piece of leather armour. Dorthe was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed she was with her mother, or possibly still peeling vegetables.

The sight of leatherwork reminded me of the contract with Warmaiden's and I skipped up the stairs; my grin of success doubled.

"You look happy," he noted, his eyes twinkling as he stopped hammering and leant against his workbench. "How did it go?" he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, which still held a stubby-looking hammer.

"Well, I think," I replied warmly, pausing to inspect the piece he had been making. It was made out of many strips of leather; the stitches were so fine, I hadn't seen them until the work was inches before me.

"I shall know for certain a little later on," I turned and leant against the workbench for myself. "Right now, I am determined to be positive. Faendal _is_ going to meet me here at dawn."

Truthfully, I wanted to talk about the Warmaiden's contract and not my deal with Faendal, for the particulars were to remain between he and I alone. I searched for a way to change the topic with the burly smith.

Creases around Alvor's eyes crinkled as he smiled, but there were still signs of worry. "I am pleased to hear it. Faendal will protect you."

"That's the plan," I hummed, then gave up on finding a suitable segue, nodding toward the in-progress leathers on the bench. "Adrianne Avenicci was impressed by your work," I relayed.

The corner of the smith's mouth twitched; his eyes slightly more pleased, though he shook his head in a humble manner. "I'm both gratified and surprised that she bought all of my work from you. You must be quite the saleswoman."

I disagreed. "She would not have bought it if it had been inferior, no matter what I said. In fact..." I hesitated. Had it been presumptuous of me to offer his services? Well. He could always decline. "She asked if you would be willing to work _with_ her, on a large contract she is having trouble filling for the Imperial Legion," I bit my bottom lip in uncertainty.

Alvor didn't respond at once. The humility in his expression shifted into a brow-tuck of bewilderment.

I smiled nervously and glanced away, staring at the roaring forge; the heat from the embers produced a welcome barrier of warmth that kept the chill of the encroaching evening at bay. Alvor remained quiet, and I couldn't tell why, so I babbled on. "If you are willing, she would ask that you complete thirty-percent of her contract. That's all we spoke about though - I asked her to discuss the terms directly with you."

Alvor still didn't say anything, and I hoped it meant he was merely stunned.

"You...are you telling Alvor that you secured us a _Legion contract_?"

The reply came from the verandah; I spun around, startled. I hadn't realised anyone else had been witness to our conversation.

It was Sigrid. She was cradling an armload of hide helmets, but she had stilled and was staring at me, looking shocked.

Relief reached my smile – for her astounded expression was not one an annoyed person would wear – I nodded. "Thirty percent of one. I don't know if you heard the whole story-"

"I heard enough!" she barked, laughing and dropping her burdens on the floor without even looking at them as she closed the gap between us and threw her arms around me.

I yelped in surprise, grabbing onto her to keep the momentum from bowling us over. Alvor chuckled behind us.

Sigrid withdrew as swiftly as she had approached; her hands remained on my shoulders. "Do you realise what this will mean for our family?" she spluttered; her green eyes shone with unspent tears.

I didn't truly know and sort of gaped a little while shrugging, but before I could form actual words, she drew me forward for another embrace. "Oh, you wonderful girl!" she hushed, her words thick with emotion.

"It was nothing, really, considering all you have done for me-" I began.

"Nonsense," Sigrid retreated, letting her hands fall back to her sides, then hastily lifted one to wipe her eyes with her fingertips. "There is kindness, and then there is-" she cut herself off, biting her bottom lip as her eyes wavered dangerously.

"The money aside, Celeste – such a contract will lead to more work than I can manage, for years to come," Alvor rumbled, hastily enough that it told me he spoke to draw attention away from his wife, to give her a moment to compose herself.

I couldn't take much more of Sigrid's gratitude either, or I might start crying as well. "You might have to train yourself an apprentice, then," I smiled widely, turning back to him.

His reply laugh was largely soundless and seemed to just jostle him. "I might well at that. Dorthe has been asking to be my apprentice for years. Perhaps it is time..." he considered.

Oh, that girl would _love_ this idea. I nodded, secretly hoping I would be in the room when he asked her. Her reaction would be spectacular.

We retrieved the helmets that Sigrid had dropped together, and then Sigrid encouraged both of us to come inside for dinner, as it would be ready quite soon.

Alvor agreed to stop work for the day. As we made our way toward the front door, I explained the rest; they could write to Adrianne that they were interested, and the negotiations could begin. Sigrid mused about travelling to Whiterun to discuss it personally, and I encouraged her, hoping that I might be able to introduce them to Lydia and Lucia, if we all happened to be in the same place at the same time.

All throughout dinner, spirits were high. Dorthe smiled and laughed with the rest of us, simply happy that everybody else was so happy, and when neither parent mentioned a word of the potential contract to her, I figured they must have been holding off until the particulars had been finalised. It was sensible enough, I supposed, given the girl's penchant for taking an idea and running wild with it.

I excused myself after another delicious meal, pleading my expedition to the Barrow at dawn as the excuse. Dorthe asked me to stay and tell her about how I met the Companions, as I had glossed over my journey to Whiterun during the meal. But I declined and both Alvor and Sigrid supported me, telling Hadvar's cousin that I needed rest.

I left the happy family to enjoy the bliss of their pending success in private, and descended to Hadvar's room, taking a moment, as I looked about his empty bedroom, to wish that he was here to share in their joy.

–

I rose early, after a few solid hours sleep and a few more hours of somewhat nervous tossing and turning. Early in the night, I had experienced a short, vivid dream about the black dragon that had attacked Helgen.

It had been sitting upon the arching stonework of Bleak Falls Barrow, watching, and waiting. It had said nothing; just glared with its fierce orange eyes, searching, while I had hidden. Finally, it had leapt from the ruin and flown higher into the mountains, screeching in evident frustration, so loud that the ground had shaken and the snow and rubble on the high arches of the ruin had tumbled down around me.

After waking from that, sleep had not come again so easily. My stomach flipped and clenched, and not entirely from the dream, though it was reminder enough that _something_ nasty was very likely lingering up there, waiting for us, even if it didn't know us.

I'd risen for a time and had relit the lantern, reading _Triumphs of a Monarch_ , which I'd taken at random from Hadvar's bookshelf to distract myself, but gratefully the autobiography of King Emeric of Wayrest was not enough to keep me from nodding off eventually.

Even so; it was well and truly before dawn when I woke and felt I could sleep through my anxiety no longer. I approached the armour, noting with some exasperation that it had been cleaned for me. After donning it and retrieving my pack, I crept upstairs. All was still and silent; the embers of the hearth glowing orange and awaiting the morning kindling to take on another day's life. On the table, by the door, was a paper-wrapped parcel, a bundle of wool, and a note on top of it;

 _Here's some food for you and Faendal, and a coat and scarf, for the journey, as the pass up to the Barrow is always covered in snow. The food is only leftovers from last night, and the clothing was given to me but I never found a reason to wear it. Please accept them.  
And, please, be careful, and let us know you are safe before you return to Whiterun.  
~ S_

I sighed shakily, choking up a little at the simple words and act, placing the wrapped parcel in my nearly-empty backpack and picking up the woollen garments to stare at them. Both were grey – the coat marginally darker than the scarf. The coat was very comfortable and fit over my Legion armour smoothly, with a fall more like a cloak than a coat, brushing the underside of my knees. Its only fastenings – wooden toggles – were at my shoulder and across my breast. The scarf was wide and simple, with no fringe or adornments, and I wrapped it around my neck a few times, before I grabbed my pack.

 _I will return,_ I promised the empty dining room, casting my eyes around it, and then pressed the heel of my palm into my forehead, to dispel the tears I felt rising to hinder me.

When I left the house, the frigid morning air caught in my throat and the desire to weep was overwhelmed by the chill as I gasped in a few invigorating, fresh breaths. If I hadn't been properly awake before, I was now.

I spotted Faendal immediately.

The elf was waiting not in Alvor's forge, as we had arranged, but at the bottom of the stairs to the front door of the house, on the main street; his eyes on the road. He was wearing hide armour; the sort favoured by hunters Skyrim-wide, and had a relaxed, almost pensive look about him as he stared at nothing with a small, secretive smile on his thin face. The picture he painted made him appear to be younger, though as ever, it was difficult to determine the age of a mer. He could have been eighty years old, for all I knew. He had two quivers full of arrows slung across his shoulders – one on each, with the straps criss-crossing his chest – and held a wooden longbow in one hand.

My breath puffed into a little white cloud in front of my face as I smiled down at him, pleased by his evident serenity, and what it pertained to. "Good morning, Faendal," I spoke quietly, not wanting to wake the entire village as I descended the stairs. "I take it that your rendezvous with Camilla went well?" I smirked.

He shook himself out of his reverie, his garnet eyes taking a moment to fix on me, but when they did, he grinned; his entire face adopting an expression of mirth.

"You can say that again," he patted me on the back in a comradely fashion. "Good morning indeed."

"I'm pleased for you," I laughed softly, then tilted my head to the side in consideration. "And, I have to admit, I'm pleased for me," I spoke with a humour-filled honestly.

"Naturally," Faendal responded with a jesting scoff.

I cast him a sideways smile and motioned toward the path before us so that we might proceed. We fell into step; our boots crunching a little against the frost and gravel.

"So!" I pipped. "Tell me about it. Well -" I held my hand out to him and faltered. "Not _everything_ about it, obviously. How did she like the letter?"

Faendal shook his head in fond remembrance. "She actually cried, when she read it," he began.

I laughed again, though made sure to keep my outburst as quiet as I could, muffling it with my hand. Riverwood was eerily silent and I was already concerned that the uneven beat of our boots against the road might wake everybody. "I _suppose_ I could take that as a compliment."

"That's a fair assumption," Faendal threw me a smirk.

We continued on, and Faendal continued to tell me about his tryst with Camilla. We walked through the gate out of town, nodding hello to the Whiterun guards posted there, then across the stone bridge toward the crossroads. I half-listened, contented in knowing that my writing had been satisfactory, and not really needing to know any more about their private meeting than that.

Faendal took one of the turns at the cross roads, along a path that angled steeply up the mountain side. I tuned back into what he was saying fully when I heard him mention _Bleak Falls Barrow_ in the context of his lady-love.

"What? You told her about...?" I stopped in my tracks and stared at him, positive suddenly that I had misheard. "Wait. She _asked_ you to go to the Barrow?"

Faendal hesitated long enough for me to catch him up. "Yes, actually. So, your expedition couldn't have been better timed, for I would have been bound for the ruin anyway."

I raised my eyebrows and my eyes widened in shock. "That _is_ surprising. What is she wanting you to do there?"

Faendal held out his hand for me to stop, saying nothing, and then drew an arrow from one of his quivers.

I froze, my eyes darting around for whatever had caught his attention. The Bosmer placed the arrow, drew his bow, aimed, and fired swiftly into the trees beside the road, without a word.

" _Yelp!"_

I jumped at the sound, as Faendal nonchalantly slung his bow back over his shoulder and resumed walking up the slope as though nothing had happened. "She asked me to look for an heirloom, as it happens. The store was broken into a few nights ago, and it was the only item the thieves took – can you believe it?"

My heart thumped wildly in my chest and I barely heard what he said as I tried to shake off my surprise at Faendal shooting...whatever he had seen in the woods. Thank the Divines he had been paying attention. I glanced around the tree line fearfully, then up to Faendal when he called out to me; an edge of confusion in his tone.

"Celeste?"

I swallowed, making myself take a step, and then I was running to catch him up and take shelter by his side. "An heirloom?" I tried to recover. What did I think we were doing? Going on a pleasant stroll in the mountains? "What manner of heirloom?"

 _Really, Celeste_ , I scolded myself. I had no reason to leap and cringe at the first sign of danger and death. I had seen fighting and bloodshed; I had watched the High King of Skyrim and then my father murdered, and found my mother's body in our front garden; I'd seen a Stormcloak executed and a dragon burn fleeing men alive with its breath. And, I was about to enter a ruin that was rumoured to be full of undead. I needed to get a hold of myself.

"A golden claw," Faendal answered in a drawl, though I felt that he was giving me a rather suspicious sideways glance.

I met his gaze, forcing composure on myself, and nodded. "All right. If it's in the Barrow, we'll find it for her."

Faendal's speculative glare softened into another sideways smile. "We'd better find it. I'm going to give it back to her as an engagement present."

The thought made me smile, though I felt more subdued. The reality of where we were and what we were doing was pooling in my stomach again, forming a thick bundle of nerves that left me nauseous.

We walked on in silence. Perhaps Faendal sensed the reason for my withdrawal, or perhaps he had started to feel nervous as well, though I couldn't see any outward alteration to the confident Bosmer's countenance. I held my arms around me against the cold and was grateful for Sigrid's thoughtfulness as I wrapped the sides of the coat around me more tightly. I frowned at the path, trying to distract myself with breathing techniques and other focus lessons from the college. When our boots crunched down onto more snow than gravel, the mer spoke up again; this time with evident hesitance.

"Celeste...do you...want a bow?" he asked.

I shook my head hurriedly, my eyes still on the snow before us as we ambled through it. "It would do me no good. I don't know how to use it."

He fell quiet, before trying again, this time sounding marginally more jovial. "I can't teach you to shoot in a single day, but everybody has to start somewhere, right?"

I gave him a quizzical look. "I'll likely shoot you before I shot a draugr."

Faendal grinned now that he had my attention. "Don't sell yourself short. You have the build of an archer."

"I...do?" I arched an eyebrow in disbelief, as my anxious stomach gurgled and flopped.

He nodded. "Trust me, I'm an expert. Remember?" he arched his own eyebrow in mirror to mine.

Faendal _had_ to be joking, trying to take my mind off what was before us. I had never been or wanted to be a fighter of any sort, and had hoped that I would never need to lift anything heftier than a lute.

I remained silent, convinced that he was either joking, or making fun of me. Faendal eventually shook his head and stopped, swinging his pack down from his shoulder. "Look. You don't have to _use_ it, if you are afraid," he sighed.

I bristled at this, but said nothing because he'd obviously said it to get a reaction from me. I watched his movements closely through narrowed eyes. It was clear he was baiting me, though I couldn't fathom the reason behind it.

He withdrew a slim, leather quiver with a few iron arrows in it, and a stumpier-looking bow than his, offering both to me with a sympathetic tilt to his head. "How about you just hold onto them for me?"

 _Don't snap at him. Don't snap at him._

"All right," I snapped, snatching both. "I'll _carry_ your not at all suspicious or convenient second bow and extra quiver for you."

Faendal seemed unfazed by my snide reply, and I cursed myself as I turned away from him, looking out over the valley below as I clumsily shouldered the quiver, then the bow.

When I turned back to him he smirked, and I _barely_ resisted the urge to scoop a ball of snow into my hands and throw it at his smug face.

Wordlessly, he motioned for us to continue, and we did just that in a charged silence.

As we walked, I asked myself why I had grown so suddenly angry with him? Because of my anxiety about the Barrow? Or had it just been the awkwardness of the exchange; my lack of control during it? I couldn't assume that I would be able to live the simple, pleasant life of a village bard now; not with the Stormcloaks dragging Skyrim into civil war and a dragon on the loose. I should have been leaping at the opportunity to learn to shoot a bow, particularly given that if I wanted to face Ulfric Stormcloak some day, I might need more than words to end him. What harm could come of my learning to fire a bow?

 _None_ , I told myself swiftly. _None at all. Get over yourself._

With a sigh, I pushed my anger resolutely down, reasoning it irrational, turning my frustration in on myself for being so quick to ruffle. "Sorry, Faendal," I swallowed my foolishness, catching him up in a few bounds. "I don't know what came over me. I would be honoured if you would teach me something that might help us at the Barrow."

"Ah, so she has a voice of reason after all," Faendal quipped, still too smug for my liking, but I let it pass. I would have to rely on him entirely, soon enough. "I'm glad that you changed your mind," he came to a stop, and indicated the weapon on my shoulder. "First thing; I would suggest that you carry it, rather than shoulder it, until you're used to it. That way you won't lose time having to take it off your shoulder."

"All right," I said dubiously, drawing it off and flexing my fingers around the leather straps in the centre of the handle. "Anything else?"

Faendal tilted his head, his eyes scrutinising. "A few more suggestions."

Despite being exposed on the side of a mountain, on a public trail covered in both old and new snow, Faendal had me re-strap the quiver around me, so that I could actually reach back for the arrows, and then taught me how to stand so I wouldn't knock the bow off target when I drew. Then, he asked me to draw the string back, without an arrow placed, to get a feel for the tension.

I nodded and raised the bow, then pulled, though I wasn't able to draw it back any further than half way. I grit my teeth, and tried to draw it further.

Nothing. Groaning from exertion, I lowered the bow. "The string is too tight," I appealed.

Faendal shook his head with certainty. "The bow's fine, your arm's too weak. I hadn't thought of that. Hmm," he mused, glancing around the trail as though the mountainside might present the solution to him.

Shame swam through me at my weakness, and I turned away so Faendal was out of my line of sight; taking an arrow and lifting the bow, aiming at the sky. The fletch slipped out of the bow string, and I cursed and hastily put it back in place.

 _You should put the bow away, and go to the Barrow. You're wasting time._

Gritting my teeth at my own lack of confidence, I inhaled and tugged at the string with all my might. Again, the taught string stopped moving, half way back. I retained my hold, trying to locate some hidden, reserved strength that might allow me to bring the string further back, and my arm began to wobble from the strain as I held on as tightly as I could.

 _It's something. Maybe it's enough._

When I let the arrow loose toward a cloud, it flopped over the end of the bow, and landed a few feet away from me, thudding into the soft snow.

"Faendal, this is pointless," I turned back to him, frustrated by my own failure.

I flushed when I realised he had been watching my attempt. I had thought his eyes had been elsewhere, and the speculative expression on his face told me _he_ hadn't given up on the scheme yet.

He held out his hands, placating. "Like I said, everybody has to start somewhere. You didn't learn to play the lute in a single day, did you?"

I shook my head, taking deep breaths to calm myself as the mer approached. "I know. But I don't think it wise to start training _within_ Bleak Falls Barrow," I held the bow out to him, admitting defeat. "I will get us both killed," I added quietly.

He glanced at it and held his hands up. "I disagree. And as your teacher, I would rather you keep hold of it. Really. I'm planning on scoring _lots_ of loot in the Barrow, and I don't want that old thing weighing me down," he turned away, and resumed walking up the path.

I huffed after his retreating form, surprised that I felt so out of breath, from merely half-pulling a bow string! What was I thinking, in agreeing to do this for Farengar?

 _You have no choice,_ I reminded myself stubbornly. _Not if you want to learn whether you're Dragonborn or not._

I ran to catch up to Faendal, the stupid bow handle clasped in my hand. Maybe if I was cornered, I could beat a draugr unconscious with it.

–

Faendal suggested that I practise tensing and loosening the bow string whenever I had a spare moment, and that he would be on the look out for a more suitable, lighter bow for me. I had huffed but said nothing, surprised that the mer seemed suddenly so determined to teach me. Was he doing it by way of recompense for my help with Camilla? Surely not, as my payment was him agreeing to accompanying me now.

 _Perhaps he is just being nice and trying to help you_ , I made myself acknowledge. _Not every action must be backed by the desire for something in return._

We managed to sidestep what Faendal assured me was a bandit-riddled keep on a nearby snow-covered bluff by leaving the path and arcing above it. As we climbed the increasingly widening path, rocky shapes beside and before us took form and looked more man-made; columns of stone, purposely placed, and arches that could not have been naturally formed. Snow washed over us, blown by a persistent, freezing cold breeze that brushed over the top of the mountain and flowed down our path, like the current of a river.

Faendal suddenly ducked down, throwing his hand out to stop me in my tracks, and indicating for me to do the same.

I dived down, landing on my belly in the snow. Faendal cast me a humourless glance. Then he held up four fingers, and pointed to the rocky wall running along side the path.

I squinted at him, shaking my head, and wished he would just speak instead of signalling. Four...four foes? And, that we were to move to the side of the road. Okay.

Leaning back onto my knees, I dusted the powdery-white snow from the front of my coat, and then settled into a crouch as Faendal crept by me, keeping low.

I mirrored his actions, glancing along and up the path, and wondering what he'd seen. Four somethings, but what exactly? Wolves? Trolls? Rabbits?

We reached the high, rocky wall beside the path, and Faendal stood, but leaned his back flat against it, his head turned and his garnet gaze fixed on the snow-tipped ruin above us. I watched him with wide eyes as he retrieved an arrow with a whisper of steel, barely discernible over the wind whooshing along the pass, and drew it back in his longbow. He exhaled, and then with a dull _twang_ , the arrow soared.

I tried to watch it as it wheeled through the air, but the tiny arrow was lost to me amongst the puffy white clouds overhead. Movement caught my eye eventually, though I did a double take to be sure I had seen what I thought I had seen; a _person_ , atop a stone pathway that jutted out from the ruins, _toppling_ silently over the edge.

I glanced back to Faendal and whispered, "Did _you_ do that?"

He threw me a swift, narrow-eyed glance, and put his finger to his lips.

I took that as a yes and closed my mouth, pressing my back against the rock wall as Faendal silently drew another arrow. I peered over his shoulder to try see what or _who_ he was aiming at, but saw nothing other than snow and rocks and structure. Then, I caught more movement, and realised that a blob I had taken for a rock was _walking_. I could make out nothing more than the motion and that it was vaguely person-shaped. Then there was another one, stepping out from behind a column, approaching the first figure I'd seen. They stopped before one another.

Faendal cursed under his breath and lowered his bow without firing.

"I got lucky with the first one," his eyes were trained on the pair in the distance, but he spoke in a hush over his shoulder to me. "There's three left, and when I fell one, the other two will charge. Are you ready?"

"No," I hissed urgently. "Faendal, _I can't fight_!"

"You won't have to," he assured me, with a hint of frustration in his quiet tone. "I'm just preparing you. They're going to charge, and I don't want you to run screaming and expose our position. I can take them out, as long as they don't see me straight away."

I flushed and nodded, swallowing down my fear, which was laced with bitter shame. "Of course. I promise I won't make a sound," I whispered meekly.

Faendal raised his bow in a single swift motion.

I remained perfectly still as my eyes darted around the mountain side for a possible bolt hole, in case the worst occurred. Only my mind couldn't settle on what the worst might be, and before I could locate somewhere to run to, I heard the whispering _twang_ of Faendal loosing an arrow, and my attention automatically snapped back to the pair of foes in the distance as I held my breath.

A second passed, and one of the blobs disappeared; falling out of view. I bit my tongue as the other blob, which I reminded myself was a _head_ , swivelled and darted about frantically, searching for the source of the attack.

 _Searching for us,_ I unhelpfully told myself.

Faendal was extremely collected; another arrow already drawn and trained on the running figure. A second joined it, and I exhaled the breath I'd been holding as quietly as I could before gasping in another and cursing myself for breathing so loudly. _The last two. Don't scream._

There was shouting from the Barrow ahead, but couldn't make out any of the words before they were caught by the wind. The two remaining figures started darting about the place again, and then grew _larger_ , closer, until I could make out the form of arms and legs and hide armour. They hadn't seen us, but they had determined which _direction_ the attack was coming from.

I prayed that I would be absorbed by the rock wall, with one hand clasping the bow Faendal had pressed onto me tightly and my other palm and back digging into the cold, hard surface. Faendal, still composed, loosed his third arrow. I wanted to look away but couldn't make myself as one of the two stumbled into the snow, crying out as they were felled.

And _this_ was the shot that exposed us; the final figure swivelling and charging toward our vantage point, with some heavy-looking blunt weapon held high above his head. He roared in outrage, and I felt as though the sound would split me in two; I wanted to flee and scream and cower and charge right back at him all at once.

I settled for doing as I had been told; remaining still, and quiet, and as Faendal had promised, he picked off the loud, heavy-set bandit before he drew too close.

I let out an exhale of utter relief and felt as though I would both laugh and cry and crumple down into the snow at once. "You did it!" I congratulated Faendal, placing a hand on his arm and squeezing it.

Faendal didn't look so happy; his brows were crossed and he was frowning at the place the fourth man had fallen. He shook his head, finally turning his piercing garnet gaze to me. "I didn't expect bandits to be up here. It must be the ones who stole the Valerius' golden claw. I wonder what they're doing with it?" he mused as he chucked his longbow over his shoulder and motioned for us to continue.

I flexed my fingers around the bow I was carrying for Faendal; I had been gripping it so tightly that now I was aware of it, my fingers stung. _A lot of good this thing is doing me._

We trudged up the mountain, though Faendal insisted we search those he'd shot, incase they had the claw on them. I was in no position to refuse anything he asked, so lumbered along after him, suppressing the urge to wretch when he started digging through the clothes of the recently, glassy-eyed deceased.

Faendal passed me a few coins and a pair of daggers. "Hold onto these, will you?"

I hurriedly tossed the money into my bag, then found a sheath on the belt of my Legion armour that would hold the blades. Not that I knew how to _use_ them, but at least they would be within reach if Faendal needed them.

At the top of the pass were wide, age-worn stairs made of the dark grey stone that both the mountain and structure were made of, making the ruin look as though it was part of the landscape. The wind caught the freshest of the snow and blew it around the platform in little flurries, while the base of each column was encased in older, more compacted ice. These columns arched up, impossibly high above our heads, and another set of stairs ascended to an in-tact pair of metal doors. I wondered how they hadn't rusted away up here, being exposed to the elements? But then, despite appearances, perhaps they were not made of steel at all.

The only signs of disturbance were the recent footprints of the bandits Faendal had felled, marring the snowy surface.

"Ah ha!" Faendal sounded victorious and I turned away from the doors to see him standing up from his crouch over the second bandit he had shot, before the other two had charged at us. He held a bow in his hand, and I wondered why he was so pleased until I remembered that he had said he'd be on the look out for another bow for _me._ I shook my head as he drew nearer as I realised it _was_ his intention I take it; his arm was outstretched for me to accept the piece.

"But, that bow is larger than this one," I held my current one out, to compare and prove my point.

Faendal made a scoffing sound. "That doesn't matter. See how the wood is thinner on this bow?" he pointed. "The tension is there, but the string won't be so stiff for you. Put the other one in your pack, and carry this instead," he instructed.

I begrudgingly complied and said nothing. His tone had carried no command, only tutelage, and I reminded myself that he was helping me out by taking the time to train me at all.

The new bow _did_ feel a little lighter, and it was of longbow design, like Faendal's own bow. As Faendal strode past me and bounded up the stairs to the enormous double-doors, I tested the new bow, grasping the handle firmly in my leading hand, standing with my feet apart like Faendal had showed me, and drawing the string back in my trailing hand as I inhaled.

It _was_ a little easier, but I still couldn't pull it back the entire way.

With a sigh at my weakness, I let the string loose and lowered my arms, then hurried up the stairs after Faendal as he pushed open one of the doors to Bleak Falls Barrow.

–

"Do you think there'll be many-?" I started.

A hand shot out and covered my mouth; another grabbing my side and tugging me sideways. I yelped, but the sound was muffled by the hand.

"Shh!" it was Faendal, hissing urgently.

I turned my head back to ask him a question, with my eyes since I was currently muted, and squirmed in his grasp, indicating that I wished to be released.

He let go of me and ducked down, motioning with his hand for me to do the same.

I crouched, glancing around the cavernous room that entering the barrow had placed us in. It was an extremely long, dark, impossibly tall structure. Rather than stare at shadows upon shadows lining the walls – if they even _were_ walls and not just more open expanse – my eyes found the reason for Faendal's frantic reaction when I had stepped through the doorway and spoken.

There was fire at the far end of the huge room. A pillar of what looked like natural stone rose between it and us, but the shadows either side of it shifted frequently enough for me to determine that there were people over there, moving around this fire. My ears perked as I heard a rumble of conversation, but yet again, I was too far to make out what they said.

My lips pursed and I threw Faendal an apologetic look; but, wary of being shushed again, I didn't speak.

Faendal nodded in appreciation, understanding my gesture, and held a single hand out, palm facing me. The signal was clear enough, this time; _wait here._

I acknowledged, and with a small nod of thanks, he began to inch forward on his haunches.

I remained where I was; cloaked in the shadow beside the doorway, watching Faendal silently creep around rocks and piles of rubble, until finally he stopped, next to another pillar of stone, and rose steadily; his back pressed against the rock and his bow, raised and armed.

My heart was in my throat, despite knowing that Faendal could handle it. He was well hidden, and while the bandits would be alerted when he felled the first, they wouldn't easily be able to find him. He was swift, silent, and accurate.

He loosed the arrow, but the first I knew of it was the sound of the bandit he struck; crying out in alarm, before a second leapt around the pillar of stone before the fire, their features in silhouette but their menacing stance enough to make my blood turn to ice. I knew that it was silly; nigh impossible, but I could have sworn that I felt the bandit's eyes fix on me as he searched.

And then he fell. Faendal had already re-drawn and taken him out while he had hesitated.

When no more voices sounded from the fire side of the cavern, I let out the breath I'd been holding, and took a step into the Barrow, relieved.

 _Screeeeek!_

Startled by the sound to my right, it was my only warning before a shadowed _thing_ launched itself at me, butting its pointy head into my side. I shrieked and fell sideways, swatting at the thing, as it launched itself at me again.

"Celeste?" I heard Faendal calling out to me through the confusion.

I held my hands up to cover my face as the lump of muscle leapt on top of my legs and snarled.

I kicked, desperately, and the thing was flung off me; before it could leap on me again, I scrambled to my feet and ran. I could hear it snuffling as it chased me, and I hazarded a glance over my shoulder.

It was low – so low to the ground that it could only be some sort of animal, and its lack of height gave me pause enough to turn back to face it curiously as my fear ebbed. This wasn't a bandit who could skulk and rationalise; it was a beast that's only thoughts were to attack and eat.

The creature launched itself at me again; a dense shadow, leaping through more shadows; and I dodged it in time, this time, fumbling at my belt to retrieve one of the daggers I'd placed there.

The creature hissed at me in annoyance, and I had seen enough of its form to figure out that it was a skeever. I wrinkled my nose in distaste as I gripped the dagger's hilt and then next time the creature leapt at me, I stepped out of the way and swiped at it with the small blade.

I hit it, but only just; not enough to kill it, but enough to annoy it. I turned as a strange, hazy calmness overcame me. I watched the creature screech in outrage and scrabble to turn around, but before it had a chance to leap at me again, it's body skidded across the rock floor in a direction it wouldn't have been able to on its own; an arrow protruding from its middle. It screeched no more.

I huffed and glanced up to Faendal, who was lowering his bow.

At once I was grateful for the shadows of the inner Barrow, for my cheeks flamed red at the entire altercation. I had been jumped on by a giant rat and it had taken me far too long to realise what was happening. I doubted it could have killed me, but if it had bitten me I could have contracted some dirty disease from it.

Faendal jogged to me, and though I saw no judgement in his eyes, I felt that I deserved some.

"Are you all right? Did it bite you?"

I shook my head, fumbling with the dagger and glancing down to re-sheath it so I wouldn't cut myself, or my armour. Not looking at Faendal made it easier to reply. "No. It snuck up on me," I muttered as a weak excuse for my defeat.

"Well, all right," he didn't sound that certain. "Just...keep your eyes open in future. We're not in a safe place."

I glanced up at him, forced myself to meet his eyes so that he would know I was serious, and nodded once. "I know," I whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Let's go," he didn't dwell on the matter, and I was grateful. The Bosmer tilted his head toward the fire that the bandits had been around, and I fell into step behind him, walking behind the mer, in his shadow.

My eyes weren't turned down any more, though. I glanced from side to side, peering through the darkness, straining to see if anything was within, watching us pass by. I caught no hint of movement from either side of the cavernous room, though we _did_ sidestep a few more dead skeevers, which I assumed the bandits must have killed before us.

Faendal stopped and crouched down again once we reached the fire, immediately searching through the armour of one of the two men he had felled. I _almost_ averted my eyes and left him to it, again, when I caught sight of the second; a twisted pile of legs and arms and fur, crumpled next to a wooden trunk.

 _Make yourself useful._

I nodded to myself, stepping toward the dead bandit and steeling my resolve. Yet again, I called on my breathing exercises, as I crouched beside him. My eyes roved over the man; Nord, blonde hair, blue warpaint, large shoulders, but thin torso, leather and fur armour, war axe at his belt, and a coin purse next to that.

I slung the bow I was carrying over my shoulder to untie the coin purse, and heard the crunch-crunch of Faendal's footfalls approaching as I put it in my pack.

"He's got a ring on his finger, too. Don't leave that."

I gave the mer an imploring look. "I'm not going to take a dead man's wedding band-"

"Stop being so sentimental," he cut me off in a low, officious voice. "That man would have slit your throat and stripped you of all you own without a second thought. We have a job to do, and that ring is now loot."

I hesitated, glaring up at the elf, wondering if he was serious.

"All right. I'll take it," Faendal swooped down next to me, reaching out to fumble with the dead man's hand.

I let him take it and a wrongness tugged at me as I stood, glancing at the dead bandit's face again. He had dark brown eyes and the whites were bloodshot with red. His teeth were bared and yellowed in his thin slit of a mouth. I frowned, knowing that Faendal was right, about everything, but not liking it one bit. Did this man have a partner? A family, even? What had led him to the Barrow, and into a life of crime?

I heard Faendal sigh, and looked to him, still frowning about the dead Nord.

The elf shuffled past, casting me a concerned look before reaching into a pocket in his armour and withdrawing a lock pick. Wordlessly, he picked the lock on the trunk, then flung the lid open and pocketed the contents; what appeared to be a few gemstones.

He stood, patting my shoulder gently.

"Remember to _carry_ your bow," was all he said, as he stepped through a door-shaped hole in the wall, and disappeared into a blackness within.

I sighed at my internal conflict; _now is not the time, Celeste_ ; and stepped after him, un-shouldering my bow as he had instructed.

–

Shaken by all I had witnessed so far, and what it had exposed of my abilities, or lack thereof, I followed the elf silently, hiding when he motioned for me to hide, speaking when he talked to me, and collecting what I could that might aid us on our journey.

I acknowledged that I had been completely unprepared for this venture; my naivety and sheer uselessness so complete that it would have been laughable, had I been able to inch out of my withdrawal to feel amused.

The escape from Helgen had not been like this, at all, and I wondered if _that_ was why I was having such a difficult time with this Bleak Falls Barrow business. Hadvar had killed Stormcloaks, but only after they had refused to let us pass without a fight. He had avoided conflict where possible, while endeavouring to keep us both safe.

Faendal didn't try to avoid anything before us. The moment he sighted a bandit, he was holding up his hand for me to stop, and firing upon them before the man or woman knew that we were within range.

He was doing exactly as I had asked him to do; to clear the way for me; but I felt ill at all the bloodshed, and ashamed of myself for asking him to do this, without _really_ thinking about what it would involve.

Perhaps it was that I had assumed all we would find in the Barrow were draugr, who were already dead?

Our journey through the Barrow was perilous, but time and time again, Faendal rose to whatever challenge was presented to us. I helped him where I could, shifting stones into alignment under his instruction to unlock doors and searching through the deceased's armour and urns and canisters for potions and pieces of gold and gems.

I'm grave robbing, I realised, as I encountered nothing but ash in a particularly small ceramic urn. I withdrew my hand and looked at the dust on my fingertips, my heart racing as I wondered who these specks had once belonged to.

"Eyes up," Faendal nudged me with his elbow, and when I looked to him he was nodding toward something beyond us. "See that web? We've got a frostbite spider ahead of us."

I replaced the lid of the urn without even looking at it; my eyes on the slivers of silvery silk, wafting in a gentle underground zephyr. "A _what_ - _?_ "

"Can I have one of those daggers?" he held his hand out, cutting me off, with his eyes also still on the web.

I had grown so used to doing what he asked that I passed one to him without question; though in my mind I wondered what use a short dagger would be against a _frostbite spider_. I had never encountered one but they had been written about. Visions of a spider as big as a house diving down with its pincers opened from the roof assailed me, and I wobbled a little when I stepped after Faendal and toward the traces of web.

Faendal inched along the passageway, which became thicker with web as we progressed. I jumped and grimaced and bit my tongue to stop from crying out every time a thread of the surprisingly sticky cobwebs drifted into contact with my exposed legs or cheeks.

Eventually, the web was so thick that our path was blocked, and Faendal started cutting at it with the dagger I'd given him with swift, short motions. The action made barely a sound, but the fibrous silk split and tore, drifting away and re-sticking to other bits of web when it fell.

After a time, Faendal opened a path into an open room, though didn't immediately step through the hole he'd created. He glanced at me with far too much excitement in his eyes than was healthy, and then drew and arrow from his bow.

I sheathed the dagger, realising that Faendal was _enjoying_ our adventure. Perhaps Alvor had been right, and the Bosmer had been cooped up in Riverwood, chopping wood for too long.

" _Is somebody there?_ "

The sound was muted, but both Faendal and I startled at it nonetheless. With another glance at each other, this time more cautious, Faendal motioned for me to step back and away from the hole he'd made in the spider's web, and without waiting for an answer from me, stepped through.

Again, I did as I was told and waited, but was unable to stem my own curiosity at what had certainly been the sound of a man's voice from within the spider's lair. I peeked around the gauge in the spider silk, scanning the pale, sticky cavern within. Enormous white nodules bulged out of creases between layers and layers of woven thread. On the ground, skeever-shaped parcels were coiled in the gooey substance.

I frowned. No people. Who had cried out?

"There you are," Faendal cried out, the sound low and growling out of the back of his throat. My heart flew into mine and I searched for him, stilling when I saw him poised in front of a massive hole in the ground, eyes and bow raised to a funnel of web arcing up into the roof of the cavern.

He loosed, and at once there was an inhuman screech of pain; then something enormous and shrouded in darkness _fell_ from the ceiling, stopping before it plummeted into the hole below its nest and swinging out toward the Bosmer.

Faendal rolled out of the way as I whipped my hand to my mouth to muffle the scream I was certain I was about to make.

"Ha-ha!" Faendal cried out, drawing another arrow and firing it at once into the horrific creature's flank. The arrow thudded into its body, but it recovered, scuttling and reaching several thick, hairy legs towards Faendal as it shrieked shrilly and swiped at him.

Again he dodged, laughing as he ducked around behind the giant spider, and firing again.

My eyes watered as I stared and refused to blink. Dimly I wondered how he could _bare_ goading the creature; surely it was formidable enough without egging it on.

The next time Faendal shot it, before he had lowered his bow, the spider spat something dark and slightly green at the elf; and _this_ time when Faendal cried out, it was in disgust.

I thought I would be sick; it was poison, and it had hit him. What were we going to do?

My question fled as I returned wholly to the now when the spider swiped at Faendal again, and this time, one of its legs caught him as he tried to leap out of the way.

I bit my tongue, wanting to turn away but unable to move.

Faendal hit the ground, landing flat on his stomach in a movement that seemed almost deliberate to me, and the spider screeched again, its front legs raised as its scuttled over the top of him, rearing up.

 _Oh Gods. This is it._ I paled and my shaking hand fell from my mouth, but still I couldn't look away.

Before the spider's pincers descended, the elf turned onto his back, his bow raised and aimed, and fired his ready arrow at point blank.

The spider was livid and reared up even higher than it had before; high enough that Faendel was able to scuttle half way out from underneath it.

But it wasn't enough. The furious spider, arrow protruding out of its head, crashed down and grabbed him by the legs, tossing him across the room.

"Aa-aah!" Faendal cried out as he was flung, and then hit the spongy web lining the wall with a dull _thunk._ He crumpled into a heap on the ground.

 _Get up. Get up!_

The spider blocked my view of him; its enormous body hunching over the silent Bosmer as it began spinning fresh silk in its front legs.

 _Its encasing him in web,_ I realised, my stomach churning with revulsion as tears sprung into the corners of my eyes. Was Faendal even still alive?

A muffled scream from his direction told me that he was, and my heart clenched at the sound.

I watched the spider work, wrapping the mer I had convinced to traverse the Barrow with me in its sticky goo. The mer who was so in love with Camilla, who was planning to propose after we made it through. My hand was clenched so tightly around the bow that Faendal had made me carry that my fingers stung again when I remembered that I had it. The stinging reminded me of the ache my fingertips had felt, when I had first started playing the lute. Until the pads had grown used to pressing the metal strings into the frets, they had ached, burned, and even bled.

But it had not stopped me from playing, and I had developed calluses, and gotten better.

I glanced at the bow, my heart racing and my eyes wide and wild, then back up to the spider. It wasn't even aware of me, witnessing its gruesome act. Surely, I could fire _one_ arrow across the room and hit it, giving Faendal enough space and time to escape.

 _Do it._

There was no time to angst any further. I grabbed an arrow from the quiver, cursing how my hands shook as I placed the fletch clumsily in my haste, and raised the bow, shifting so that my feet were positioned correctly. The spider was in my sights. It was close enough that it shouldn't matter if my aim wasn't true. I pulled the string back, as far as I could manage, and then grit my teeth and told myself to stop being so weak, and save Faendal. The string moved back another few inches.

I exhaled and fired.

My arrow fell short of the spider, but the sound of it skipping against an exposed piece of rock was enough for the creature to cease what it was doing, and turn its horrible, many-eyed head toward the source of the disturbance. I held my breath as the spindly thing turned fully, angling its head down to inspect the arrow I had fired, and hurriedly grasped for another arrow. My eyes flickered to Faendal; half-covered in goo, struggling to break free of it and at the same time, not make a sound.

I placed the second arrow in the bow, my hands still quaking as I aimed at the spider's head.

 _Please. This time, fly true,_ I begged, _prayed_ to whichever Divine might have been watching.

Pulling the string back with all of my might, I exhaled and fired again. The arrow whizzed through the air, thudding into one of the spider's little eyes.

The sound it made as it reared up made me instinctively scramble backwards, and I stumbled over a tuck of rock and fell down hard on my backside. Still I froze, ignoring the pain, and stared as the spider's hairy legs shuddered for a moment, and then the screeching stopped, and it toppled to the ground with a _thud_ that shook the ground beneath us.

My eyes somehow widened even more as I scrambled to my feet. It was _dead_?

I watched it a moment longer as it twitched, certain that it would soon rise and leap at me.

"Celeste, you did it!" Faendal cried out from across the room, relief plain in his gasp of pain. "Hurry up and get over here!"

His voice startled me into awareness and action, and I hastened across the nest to where he was still tangled in spider's silk. I ignored the crunch of tiny bones and squelch of Divines-knew-what under my boots as I gave the dead, but still occasionally twitching spider a massive berth.

" _You did it!_ " another somewhat shrill voice called out from wall of nearly solid web. " _Cut me free, please!_ "

I faltered, peering into the web, and caught sight of frantic movement within but not much else. "Um, just a moment," I called out to him, then continued making my way to Faendal.

" _No - no, please, I beg you!_ " the voice came again. " _I've been trapped in here for hours – days, probably!_ "

I bit my bottom lip and said nothing, moving toward Faendal. The chances of this voice in the web being another bandit was high, and I'd need Faendal if he was.

"Quick, this bit around my arms," Faendal was nodding at his chest. The spider had wrapped its thick, strong thread around his upper arms so tightly that while his hands were free, he didn't have much movement. His legs were also completely covered.

I knelt in the grime and slime of the ground with a grimace, handed him one of the two daggers I carried, then got to work on slicing through the web restraining his arms. A few gentle saws of the blade, and it his arms were released.

"Ugh," Faendal tore the stuff off him with disgust, then adjusted his hold on the dagger and started sawing through the web encircling his legs. "Thank you," he muttered, his eyes on his work. "I thought I was done for."

There was a barely perceptible tremor to his tone. I sat back on my heels, watching him work and frowned as I took in the state of the mer. His armour had caught most of the sticky, green poison that the spider had fired at him, but there was enough of it on his neck and face that I had to wonder how he was still conscious. He looked gaunt and grey, but I wondered if it was the meagre lighting causing most of his pallor.

Sheathing the dagger, I reached into my pack and searched for a potion to help him. I'd collected all that I'd found during the journey, though most were of the stamina and restoration variety.

Fanedal finished cutting his way free and flexed his legs, rubbing at his knees with a wince. His eyes were on me, and he nodded toward my bag, obviously working out what I was doing.

"You don't have any thistle in there, do you? Perhaps some garlic?" I heard him hiss.

I shook my head, turning my eyes up properly at the sound of his strained wheeze, and again I looked him up and down. I was _certain_ that his eyes had dark circles underneath them that hadn't been there before. "I'm looking for a potion. Would thistle and garlic really help with venom?" I asked him, more to keep him talking.

Faendal grunted with exertion and I noticed he was trying to lift himself to his feet. "Yes. You'd be surprised what a few herbs here and there can do."

I leaned forward, pushing gently on his chest to guide him back down, which I managed with surprisingly little effort. "Just, relax, please. Drink this," I palmed him a stamina potion, hoping it would distract and tide him over, until I found something that might more suitably combat the poison.

Faendal sniffed it tentatively before taking a swig, nearly spluttering as he made himself swallow it down, and shooting me a revolted look when he passed the empty bottle back to me. "That is _foul_."

I took the bottle hastily, casting it into the pit in the middle of the spider's nest, and smiled. "At least your tastebuds still work. Here," I grinned victoriously, finding a tiny red bottle in amongst the other red potion bottles. Unlike the other health potions this one had a little cord tied around it's neck, and a small label that read _cure poison._

Faedal glowered at me, propping himself up on his elbows, then snatched the potion with one hand and inspected the label with a frown. "Get the water skin ready," he said dryly, as he tugged the wax out of the top with an audible 'pop'.

I smiled and did as he bade.

After Faendal had gagged down the potion and drank about half of our water supply to wash and keep it down, the colour returned to his skin and he lost that slightly panicked sheen to his garnet eyes.

I helped him to stand, and nodded to the place in the web where I'd heard the voice earlier. "Somebody else is here," I muttered in an undertone to my companion.

Faendal leaned on my shoulders, crossing his brows and glancing at the place I'd indicated. "Bandit?" he said through the side of his mouth to me.

I shrugged. "I couldn't see him. He called out to me when I passed by."

" _Are you still there?_ " the panicked voice came again, as if on cue. " _Don't leave me here to die!_ "

Faendal nodded in acknowledgement, determination taking over his features, and he gingerly took a step away from me and stooped down; retrieving his bow.

When he stood, he'd already placed and arrow and drawn the bow, his eyes on the point where we'd heard the voice.

"Go quietly," he instructed. "Cut through most of the web holding him, but don't cut him free just yet."

I nodded and stepped toward the web wall, gripping the hilt of my dagger tightly as my eyes flickered to the enormous lump of shadow where the dead spider lay. It had stopped twitching.

"We're...going to cut you free now," I called out as I faced the wall, and began slashing at the web. "Hold still, so I don't cut you," I warned.

 _Easier for Faendal to aim if he's still._

" _Hurry!_ " the man called desperately. " _I don't want to be eaten!_ "

I frowned. "The spider's dead," I told him, as the web in front of me jiggled. "Just – hold _still_. You'll be free in a moment."

"Stop engaging with him, Celeste," Faendal whispered warningly from by my side; his bow raised and trained on the place where the web was most noticeably shuddering. "Remember where we are."

I flushed and nodded, pursing my lips and concentrated on slicing through the web.

After a short time, I could make out the form of the struggling man. He was the muscliest Dunmer I'd ever seen, wearing a leather kilt with most of his torso exposed.

"Arkay praise you, child!" the Dunmer sighed with relief. "Just a little – more," he fidgeted in his binds.

"No, that's quite enough for now," Faendal spoke deadpan at the Dunmer; at the same time, warning me.

I lowered my dagger, stepping back and doing my best not to meet the eyes of the fearful man, and Faendal took my place; the tip of his arrow inches from the mer's nose. The Dunmer actually went cross-eyed, trying to look at it.

"Now. Tell us where the claw is, and my friend will finish cutting you free and we can all go on our merry ways," Faendal spoke quietly, but with enough ice behind his tone to make what he said sound scary.

The Dunmer's eyes un-crossed to stare at Faendal in confusion. "What claw?"

"The golden claw that you and yours stole from the Riverwood Trader two nights ago," Faendal added calmly.

After a pause, the Dunmer huffed. "I don't know what you mean."

Faendal made a 'tsk' sound, and while his eyes remained trained on the Dunmer, he spoke to me over his shoulder; "Slit his throat."

"Wha-?" I faltered, paling.

"What? _No_!" the man screeched, his panicked red eyes flickering between Faendal's arrow tip and my dagger.

I glanced down at the dagger too, then, and the absurdity of this Dunmer believing I was capable of slitting anybody's throat pressed against me, threatening to make me giggle. Certainly, Faendal didn't expect it of me. I bit my tongue and raised my eyes, narrowing them as I tried my best to look menacing.

"Maybe he'll speak if we cut somewhere else, boss," the words snaked out of my mouth before I realised I had said them; like lines from a performance that I'd been rehearsing for at the college.

Faendal snorted, nudging at the Dunmer's cheek with his arrow head. "Nah, too messy. Let's get this over with," he lowered his bow and stepped back, to let me pass.

The Dunmer met my eyes, his fear acute, and I did my best to maintain his gaze with a steady one as I stepped up in front of him. "Smile and face your death like a man," I spun words, though my heart thumped erratically as I said them and angled the blade toward his neck. "Or perhaps I shall simply cut you a new one."

"All right, you _looneys_ ," he whispered, gasping out the last. "I've got it. It's in my pack. Just cut me free, and I'll give it to you."

I smirked, turning back to Faendal and bowing. "He's all yours. You're welcome."

Faendal grinned at me, lowering his bow and putting his arrow back in its quiver, grasping the handle of his dagger and stepping up to take my place. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" Faendal cut at the last few threads of thick web holding him aloft in what I could see now was a passageway.

I sheathed the dagger, watching the pair and relieved that we were on the verge of completing one of our two tasks, at least. With a bit of a wriggle and a rustle, I heard the Dunmer drop onto stone.

"There, you're free. Now, hand it over-"

"Ha!" the Dunmer barked, and I startled as Faendal wheezed and doubled over, crashing to the web-streaked, rocky floor.

"What are you doing?" I screamed at the unknown mer. "We saved you!"

The Dunmer didn't spare me a second glance; he turned and ran away from us, and further into the ruin. "You were going to slit my throat, freak!" he called out behind himself. "I'm not giving you the key to the Nord's treasure!"

I fumed as I raced to Faendal's side, dragging the Bosmer to his feet and palming him a restoration potion from my pack.

Faendal grabbed for and downed it, then threw the empty bottle aside and surged forward after the Dunmer. "Come on!" he called out to me as he disappeared from view.

"Ahhh!" the pained scream of the Dunmer echoed down the passage, multiplying as it filtered into the spider's nest.

The sound prompted me to dart forward into the passage, to find Faendal.

Torches burned on the walls – _who lit these?!_ – and I hadn't run for long before I sighted him, kneeling over the crumpled body of the Dunmer. His back was to me, his bow over his shoulder. I slowed to a walk as I neared him.

I took in our surrounds, reasoning that we must have now been deep underground. The walls were lined with slots, and most of the occupants were covered with shrouds or encased in coffins. Some of the deceased ancient Nords were uncovered; their darkened skin wrinkled and arms crossed on their chests.

My eyes widened as I stopped next to the crouched Faendal, and I grasped his shoulder to get his attention as I noticed another crumpled form on the path ahead of them; its skin also darkened and creased, with an arrow sticking out of it. My eyes widened. Was this...?

Faendal looked up when I had grabbed him. "It's a draugr," he confirmed, then nodded back down to the Dunmer. "Help me roll him; the claw must be in his backpack."

I sank to my knees automatically, and leant what strength I had to turn the Dunmer onto his front; my eyes on the collapsed draugr all the while, in case it decided to rise from the dead. Well, again.

I heard the shuffle of cloth from Faendal's direction, and then-

"Ah ha!" he cried out, victorious. I glanced at him, feeling pale, to see him clasping a rather large, gold, three-pronged claw-like sculpture in his hand.

His exclamation rumbled around the small passage, and I ducked, turning my eyes back to the passage as dust and tiny stones fell from the ceiling around us, enveloping us in a rusty-coloured cloud.

 _Crack._

Both of us startled this time; Faendal hastily shoving the claw into my pack as it was within reach, then standing, raising his bow.

Through the settling dust, I caught a glint of blue. Then two glinting, star-like orbs. Then four. Then six. Twelve. More than I could count.

Then I noticed the shadows underneath the blue orbs, shuffling and swaying, and realised the sparkles were _eyes_.

I scrambled back, trying to rise to my feet behind Faendal, and understood that his whooping had awoken all of the draugr in the immediate vicinity.

"Run!" he grated over his shoulder to me, through clenched teeth.

At the same moment, he loosed his arrow into the oncoming mass.

* * *

 _A/n: a loooong chapter but I hope it's worth it. Thanks again for the reviews of last chapter - again I'm relieved that it's not boring! It's such a (welcome) challenge to write a protagonist who can't fight._  
 _Cake-san: I'll answer one of your questions since I hadn't planned on explaining it in-story and it was just intended to be a nice bit of throwaway character development. The 'other stray' was a literal baby fox cub. Hadvar is the sort of man who, as a boy, would bring home lost, injured animals all the time (as part of his doing all in his power to protect the meek).  
Your other question will be addressed over time :)_


	17. An Unrelenting Force

_Chapter 17: An Unrelenting Force_

The draugr charged and I screamed. The sound was entirely drowned out by the grunting barks issuing from the draugr hoard. I did as Faendal commanded, as I had been for the entire expedition, and I ran, back toward the spider's nest.

Faendal flew past me. At first, I thought he was running, too, but then he crashed into a wall beyond me, and I saw that he had been facing the wrong way to run. I raced to him as he scrambled up to his feet, and saw no arrows, or anything, sticking out of him.

" _FUS!_ " I heard, uttered by one of the draugr behind us; the sound raw and gravelly, pushing a hand of somehow determined air against my back. I shielded Faendal from the effects as I toppled onto him, as within my mind, once again, the word _force_ echoed between my ears.

With a jolt of dread, realised that Faendal had been thrown back _by a draugr shouting FUS at him._

There was no time to be horror-struck in the knowledge that the draugr, or some of them at least, possessed the same power that Ulfric Stormcloak did. Faendal was back on his feet and had hauled me to mine, and we ran around a corner in the path, grasping onto each other's arm, fleeing at a pace that I ordinarily would not have been able to maintain. The clamour of the draugr tearing along the path, stopping to _shout_ occasionally, followed us like a surreal, horrific nightmare, echoing around the enclosed spaces.

Faendal and I plunged into the dimness of the spider's lair, and I was almost relieved to reach it. We skirted around the massive hole in the centre, and leapt through the hole on the other side, that Faendal had originally created in the web, before we had encountered the lair's mistress.

I gasped and shuddered, leaning hard against the ground as Faendal released me. "What are we _doing_?!"

Faendal turned at once and drew an arrow in a fluid motion, with his eyes and aim on the gap on the other side; the one we had created by cutting the Dunmer bandit down; the hole we had just run through ourselves.

"They will be forced into single file," Faendal told me in a rush. "Stay out of sight. I'll take care of this."

I crossed my brows at the Bosmer, staring up at him from my hands and knees, vexed and at a loss for how to reply. Of course, there was nothing I _could_ do that would be of help to him in this situation but obey, and ready the potions in case he needed them.

Hastily rising up onto my knees, I pulled my pack around in front of me and did just that, taking out a green bottle and unstoppering the cork. "Drink this," I ordered.

Faendal's eyes flickered to the bottle, and he grimaced.

I quirked an eyebrow at him. "Quickly," I prompted.

He snatched it, and no sooner had he swallowed down the stamina potion, than the first draugr; a moving, grunting shadow; lumbered into the spider's nest.

Faendal shot it immediately, and it fell with a screech.

I threw the empty bottle aside, shuddering at the noises coming from the spider's lair as Faendal fired arrow after arrow into the room. I wished that I could see what was happening within the webbed area, but after each grunt and shriek I was also utterly relieved that I couldn't.

So I watched the mer in front of me, tirelessly fighting for us. He never faltered, not in plain sight of the army of undead that were clamouring to reach us and tear us to pieces. Occasionally he would leap out of the way, to rest his back against the inside of the webbed wall for a second, and on those occasions sparks of energy or gusts of ice, or age-worn arrows, soared through to occupy the space he previously had, and crash loudly against the wall of the opposite passageway.

But the ranged attacks never lasted for long, and Faendal always returned to his post and resumed silently taking out each and every draugr that approached our position.

I had another potion ready for him, but didn't dare distract him to take it. I waited and watched, and eventually, _mercifully_ , the grunts of the draugr ceased, and Faendal lowered his bow.

He was grimacing when he turned to me, and I palmed him the stamina potion without a word.

"Ugh," he grunted in disgust as he regarded the bottle. " _This_ is all the reward I get? Don't you have any mead?"

Despite his protests, he upended the contents into his mouth at once, so despite his unaffectedness, I knew that he must have been more tired than he appeared.

"Sorry," I tilted my head apologetically, glancing into my pack. "I have some food from Sigrid, though? That might take the taste out of your mouth."

Faendal's eyes widened at the prospect, as he threw the empty bottle aside and wiped his mouth with his arm. "Yes," he choked back a laugh. "Food from Sigrid will do nicely."

The elf sat down beside me, and I offered the wrapped parcel to him, easing myself into a sitting position as well as he unwrapped it between us.

"Of all the places to rest and feast," he sat back, glancing from the dumplings to our immediate surrounds; a dark, dank, web-encrusted passageway between the spider's nest and another passageway.

I laughed, motioning for him to help himself. "Not a suitable place to bring Camilla for a date, then?"

"Perhaps not," Faendal picked up two dumplings, grinning as he bit into one. "No privacy," he added, through half a mouthful of food.

I glanced away, musing over the absurdity of our sudden mirth and impromptu picnic, and let Faendal take his fill. He deserved it, and while I was hungry, I felt ill at what we had endured so far, and in knowing that there would be more draugr before us yet. If I ate, I would likely bring it back up the next undead we saw.

I leaned back further, dragging my longbow off my shoulder, and practised drawing the string, as Faendal had suggested I do whenever there was an opportunity. Fatigue seeped from every muscle, making my arms shake as I tried to hold the tension, and then released it with a sigh.

I heard Faendal swallow noisily across from me, and glanced up to him.

"You saved me, from the spider, you know," he spoke kindly. More kindly than I had ever heard him speak, I thought. "Thank you."

I gave him a half smile. "It was a fortunate fluke," I admitted. "And certainly nothing to dwell on. You have saved me countless times today."

Faendal shook his head with determination, as he took a swig from his water skin and swallowed again. "I'm used to firing a bow, Celeste. I can't remember a time in my life where I didn't have a bow within reach," he sat back more comfortably, extending his legs and leaning back on his hands. "You should never dismiss what you have achieved, based on comparison to others around you," he raised his eyebrows sagaciously. "That's a path that will always find you wanting."

I flushed and lowered my eyes, but was unable to stop from laughing softly. Praise, particularly when I didn't believe I deserved it, always made me nervous, and laughter helped me to hide it.

Faendal returned to eating, and while I was relieved he didn't continue his lecture, I couldn't deny that I felt a prickle of pride, beneath the cacophonous flutter of nerves.

I sat back as well, finally, and adopted a pose similar to Faendal's; legs straight, leaning back on my hands, to stretch my aching muscles out a bit before we continued on again.

Before I could stop myself, I realised I was humming quietly. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, telling myself that everything would be okay. I could hum here; we had cleared this space of its foes. Besides, music always calmed me.

I felt the vibrations of the song I'd randomly chosen ripple through me, and smiled more easily. It was _The Summoner_ , a little tune about Faindor the Prodigy, but I realised as I hummed that with a few simple tweaks the words would serve me, here and now. I inhaled, and sang with a curl of amusement on my lips;

" _Faendal the Bosmeri,  
Used his expert archery,  
To bring an end to the draugr mass,  
For the whims of this silly bardic lass_-"

Faendal snorted into his water skin, and I grinned at him, leaving my take on the lyrics there, and simply resumed humming.

Singing _did_ make me feel better. Deciding that I was ravenous, I reached forward and took a few of the dumplings, which were just as good cold as they had been warm the night before.

Neither of us were in any particular hurry to press on into the crypt, but once most of the food was finished, Faendal rose with a bit of a groan, and held his hand out to me. "We'd better collect what we can of the arrows I fired before. I'm nearly out," he grimaced.

Wordlessly, I packed away what remained and let him help me up with a sigh; our moment of calm over. There was nothing to say, so for some minutes we silently crept around the spider's lair, pulling arrows out of the mass of fallen draugr. A few draugr had quivers of their own, and I collected their arrows as well, in case they could be of any use. A couple of draugr wore ancient circlets and necklaces. It felt wrong to take beloved treasures from the dead, but I didn't want Faendal to tell me off again, so I collected and threw them into my pack hastily and reminded myself that they would better serve us in the living world than on these twice-killed corpses.

With an armload of arrows held like firewood, I rose and looked around for Faendal, spotting him standing before the ginormous frostbite spider, his head tilted speculatively to one side as he stared at it thoughtfully.

"What is it?" I asked as I stepped up beside him; the first words we had spoken to one another for some minutes. I stared at the spider myself, repressing a shudder as venom dripped down its fangs and made a little _splat_ noise on the ground.

"Have you any containers or empty bottles?" he asked quietly, not looking at me as he asked, but nodding at the spider. "The eggs of a queen such as this would fetch quite a price, to the right alchemist."

"Really?" I asked uncertainly, nudging him with my elbow and passing him the armload of arrows when he regarded me. "I'm not sure. I've been throwing the bottles away. Oh – wait!" I remembered, running to the hole we'd cut in the web and picking up the empty stamina potion bottle that Faendal had thrown away in there before we'd taken our meal.

"Thanks," Faendal had already put away the arrows, including the ancient Nord ones, and held the empty green bottle aloft. He drew his dagger from his hip, and angled the blade toward the spider's flank. "And yes. Just as with thistle and garlic, you'd be surprised what use can be made of a little thing like a spider's egg," he sliced, with swift precision.

"Ugh," I grimaced, as tiny, sticky speckled eggs flowed out of the gash Faendal had made with a wet _splurt_.

I turned away, letting him complete the grisly task on his own, and heard the mer snort at me.

"You'll regret not harvesting them when you see all my beautiful, shiny gold."

I chill ran along my spine and I shuddered, holding my hand back to him in refusal, though still couldn't make myself watch. "I would rather stay poor," I swallowed back bile rising in my throat.

Faendal barked a laugh, and before long he had stepped up next to me, the bottle of goopy eggs out of sight. I wondered what he had used to stopper it, and shook myself, deciding that I didn't need to know. Probably a wedge of the spider's own skin, or perhaps one of its legs? Better not to ask.

"Shall we proceed?" I asked him, nodding toward the tunnel we had fled out of, not even an hour earlier. "You have achieved your goal, but we are yet to achieve mine," I reminded him.

"Yes. Let's get this over with," Faendal nodded, stepping past me with his bow lowered, and I saw that he had an arrow nocked and ready in it. "Remember to keep hold of your bow."

I rolled my eyes at his back, un-shouldering the longbow and stepping through the tunnel after him. "Yes, boss," I muttered in a sing-song voice.

–

The tunnels were eerily silent as Faendal and I shuffled through them. We encountered no walking draugr for a long while, owing to, I assumed, the sheer number Faendal had woken in one go earlier.

So for a time, Faendal and I were free to look around the labyrinthian crypt and collect the odd bit of loot from urns as we passed them by.

Eventually, Faendal grabbed my arm to stop me in my tracks. I glanced to him swiftly, and then looked in the direction his eyes were trained. He let go of my arm, and raised his bow, aiming at what looked like just another unmoving draugr, lying on its deathbed.

What was he doing? I glanced back to the Bosmer, crossing my brows in question, but his focus was determined. When he loosed the arrow, a disgruntled shriek sounded from the prone form's direction, and my eyes snapped back to it. The arms of the draugr had sagged off its chest; one of its long arms trailing out from the resting place with its fingers brushing the stone earth below.

"How did you know that one would wake?" I hissed at Faendal, wide-eyed. "It looked like any other draugr!"

Faendal smirked smugly and shouldered his bow, striding toward the draugr he'd shot, retrieving the arrow. "Come and look for yourself," he replied openly, placing the arrow back in his bow to use again next time. He drew his free hand along the side of the draugr with a sweeping motion.

I cautiously stepped closer, my eyes now narrowly regarding the Bosmer. This was clearly not the first time he had encountered draugr. Perhaps grave-robbing wasn't such a new experience for him. Either that, or he had some sort of in-built draugr detector.

"See how the arms and legs are corded, as though its been re-building muscle instead of decaying this entire time?" he whispered.

I glanced down, my eyes roving over its arms and legs. I supposed they did look a little...fleshier, than the average unmoving dead. "How do they _do_ that?" I asked, unable to mask my awe.

"How do the dead revive?" Faendal confirmed. I nodded.

He shrugged, frowning. "Nobody's really sure. There's probably a scholar or two, studying the phenomenon from the safety of their libraries, but I doubt we're meant to know the truth of it. It seems like a curse, if you ask me," he stepped back from the draugr we were observing, and indicated that we keep walking, before continuing. "Those who rise have been cursed to serve someone or some _thing_ , for eternity, and as with most curses, it's dual-edged. I suspect that the curse enables them to regenerate while they slumber, and its merely their age that makes them appear so...crispy."

We stepped back onto the path in contemplative silence. I kept my eyes peeled for signs of sleeping draugr, while I chewed over what the mer had said. If the draugr _were_ under a curse, serving someone else, did that mean their souls had never ascended to Sovngarde – that they had never, truly, died? Were they really undead, then, for a walking, fighting creature with a soul was, in my opinion, still alive? Or had their souls been trapped elsewhere upon their deaths, committing their flesh to serve their eternal sentence?

I sighed over the riddle, determining that Faendal was right; we were probably not meant to understand it. Whatever had passed to create them had occurred eons before.

We pressed on. Time and time again, Faendal spotted the draugr before us, and dispatched them before they became aware of us. Sometimes he shot his arrows into hanging lanterns, making the flames fall and scatter over pools of glistening oil, and other times he shot at a trap, to catch a patrolling draugr unawares in it. More often than not, though, he merely shot them while they slept.

I had little to do but watch and learn. I practised tensing the longbow, during the brief stretches of time where we encountered no foes, though didn't think it wise to try my luck again and shoot an arrow, even at a sleeping draugr. Faendal's sharper eye and sure-footedness saved us many a time from springing traps. He was so fleet that he was even able to dash through a perplexing tunnel of swinging blades to deactivate them from the other side, without breaking into a sweat.

After I hastened through the tunnel, casting a wary glance at the now motionless blades, I glanced up at him with wide eyes, but said nothing. I had to admit that I was growing a little awed of the mer, and a little envious of his invaluable and varied skill set.

He flashed me a half-smirk. "Before you ask; no. I have no idea why anyone would install swinging blades in a passageway, either."

I huffed a bit of a laugh as we continued on, climbing a set of stairs in his wake and walking across a high bridge. Yes, much about what we had encountered was perplexing, not to mention the traps almost inherent to the architecture. What had the ancient Nords been protecting, when they had set this place up? A simple treasure, as the Dunmer had stated before he had fled to his doom?

We stepped into the next chamber; a long, darkened passageway. The walls seemed to be carved, but Faendal didn't delay long enough for me to look at them. He paused in the entrance, briefly, to ensure there were no foes before us, and then ran along the length of the chamber, toward the far wall.

I fell into step behind him, running to try and keep up, my bow still clutched in my hand, though I could feel the beginnings of blisters developing on my palm. I switched hands as I slowed to a stop beside Faendal.

The mer was inspecting the wall blocking our path, with his chin raised and his hands on his hips.

I turned to examine it for myself. It was carved quite beautifully with all manner of looping, swirling arcs and spirals, and in the centre was a large, circular structure; a series of rings with golden seals set into them at intervals and a larger, golden circle in its centre.

Faendal stepped closer to the wall, running his hand over this inner golden plate. "There's holes here. This is a lock," he murmured.

I joined him, smirking when I recognised the footprint-like claws at once. "What was it the Dunmer said it was? Key to the Nord's treasure?"

Swinging my pack over my shoulder, I retrieved the golden claw that Camilla had sent Faendal after, and the elf laughed when he realised what I had. I handed it to him swiftly, and let him place it into the three holes. The sound of stone scraping against stone echoed around the quiet chamber as he placed it, but nothing else happened.

We frowned at one another, and Faendal stepped forward again, wordlessly turning the stone rings around, placing his ear against the panels occasionally. He shook his head, stepping back to observe the rings again with another thoughtful frown.

I removed the claw and peered at in, then rolled my eyes when I noticed the carvings set into the smooth surface on the underside; tiny, circular, seal-like depictions of a bear, moth, and owl.

Faendal was already back at the wall, turning the circular rings again, and the stone scraping stone sound amplified as it echoed off the walls of the low, long chamber.

"Faendal, wait," I placed a hand on his arm to stop him. When the mer turned to me questioningly, I merely held out the claw by way of answer, with the symbols facing him.

He crossed his brows and peered at the animals with a tilt of his head, before he nodded and set to work turning the rings with more purpose. "It's simpler than I thought it would be," he turned the first ring with a groan, letting it clunk into place when the bear set into the ring was at the topmost position.

"I wonder how Camilla's family came upon such a thing," I mused, turning the claw around to get a proper look at it. It couldn't possibly be made of solid gold, or I wouldn't be able to hold it, and those couldn't possibly be _diamonds_ set into each protrusion, as claws.

"Who knows?" Faendal shrugged but continued moving the middle ring, until the moth was in position under the bear. "What's the last one again?"

"Owl."

The smallest ring was set into position, and Faendal stepped back and motioned with a sweep of his hand for me to proceed. "You may do the honours," he said grandly, clearly pleased with our progress.

I reached out with the claw, set it into its holes, then turned it.

At once, the ground shook, and the wall before us started to sink into the floor.

We grinned at one another victoriously.

"Now we get to find out what this treasure is that the bandits were after," Faendal rubbed his hands together greedily.

I rolled my eyes and pressed the claw on him, which he chucked into his pack while we waited for the wall to completely fall.

Faendal was the first to step into the room, and I peered through after him. I felt immediately confused, for the wall had been blocking a natural cavern, and not simply a doorway to same crypt.

"What is this place?" I whispered to Faendal as I stepped onto a moss-covered rock, placing my next step more carefully, so I wouldn't slip.

Faendal half-turned toward me, and I could see he'd raised his finger to his lips.

I nodded, wincing at myself. Had I learned nothing during our journey? Walking into a space and speaking aloud immediately was the fastest way to get one killed.

While Faendal picked our way across the expanse, and I walked in his footsteps, I glanced around the cavern with interested eyes. There were creepers and stalactites hanging from the roof, and the sound of a waterfall nearby. The air felt moist, too; the water source must have been very near. Ferns poked through between the boulders littering the place, and moss and lichen clung to the surfaces, making their facades speckled and textured. Shafts of harsh, white sunlight broke through the gloom from an impossibly-high ceiling, and a swarm of soft, peach-coloured moths fluttered by us as we neared them, ascending in an arc and disappearing from sight.

We crept through the frankly beautiful cave silently, and eventually, Faendal rose to his full height and lowered his bow, evidently deciding that nothing was waiting in here to attack us. "We're at the end. Look," he extended his arm, pointing to something in the distance.

I looked; a grand, stone coffin and some burial urns on a well-lit platform surrounded by large, stone braziers. Beyond it, a curving stone wall, made of lighter stone than the boulders around us, rising high above the platform.

I nodded, and we made our way across a little streamlet, climbed a few boulders, and were then on the smoothed surface before the tomb.

"This must contain the treasure the bandits were seeking," Faendal told me, his eyes still on the prize. "I don't like this," he mused with a baffled shake to his head. "A closed coffin means draugr, but, it hasn't woken yet. Why not?"

I took a step back then stilled, suddenly wary that any movement I made might wake the sleeping ancient. Faendal didn't seem to require a response from me, anyway, and stepped forward. I held my breath as I watched him nonchalantly lean over and push against the stone top of the coffin in an effort to shift it aside.

Nothing happened.

I sighed with relief, and relaxed. "Maybe there is no draugr," I posed. "We're merely meant to _think_ there is one," I glanced around the platform, confident enough to take my eyes off Faendal's efforts. "Perhaps the treasure is hidden elsewhere?" I posed, peering into one of the open burial urns. All that seemed to be inside _this_ one was dirt.

Faendal grunted with exertion as he tried pushing again, then stood. "Have a look around, then," he suggested, his eyes still on the sealed tomb. "But," he suddenly seemed to remember who he was talking to, and swivelled to stare at me. "Be careful. And – don't touch anything."

I could hear the humour in his tone, and rolled my eyes as I smirked back at him. "Whatever you say, boss."

"Hah," Faendal went back to the task before him, leaning the full weight of his shoulder into the large, stone coffin lid and what he considered, his goal. "I could get used to this 'boss' business."

"Don't let it go to your head," I mumbled and turned away, eyes roving around the large, curving wall behind the platform. When I had first sighted it, I had thought it to be smooth at its base and only carved at the top, but from this new position even the lower section seemed to have little gouges taken out of it. I crossed my brows and stepped closer, realising that it was some form of ancient writing.

Another step toward it, and a flash of blue caught my attention. I froze and my eyes snapped to the blueness; worried that somehow, it was the eyes of a draugr. But it wasn't a draugr, and I saw that it was simply bright, clear blue light, emanating from a series of scratches in the wall.

 _Magic_ , I told myself cautiously, remembering how Melaran had cast runes on the windows and doors of Proudspire with a similar effect. Only, this was smaller than the mage's protective runes, and somehow, brighter. What manner of magic was this?

"Faendal?" I called out over my shoulder, unwilling to take my eyes off the flaring script.

Through the grunting groans of the Bosmer's attempt to open the coffin, I made out a, "what?"

"You have _got_ to see this," I called out again, taking another step toward the glittering lights.

I grinned. Maybe _this_ was the key to the Nord's treasure? Faendal had told me not to touch anything, though, so I repressed the urge swelling within me to reach out and run my fingertips through the blue brightness.

The elf was by my side in a matter of seconds, and I smiled up to him and said nothing, waiting for him to see it for himself.

He was panting; the first signs of exertion I'd seen exhibited by the mer; and his eyes roved over the stone before us. After a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly, and he turned to me. "It's a wall," he deadpanned.

I frowned at him. "Not the wall, that," I pointed to the fluttery, glittering blue, still shining from some source beyond the script on the same little scratchings.

"What?" Faendal asked again, an annoyed edge to his question this time.

" _That_!"

"It's just a wall!"

"Open your eyes!" I stepped closer to the blue light, placing my fingertips on it in frustration. " _This_!"

A roaring, whooshing gust of air encircled me, and the blue light underneath my palm was suddenly everywhere. I gasped as the blue brightened until I was blinded by whiteness, and swayed as the storm consumed, and then became part of me. At once, the air that had clawed at my skin and whipped at my hair flowed through my veins; hot and terrifying, but powerful, and intoxicating.

A word; sonorous, victorious; was poured into me, as clear in my mind as a bell.

 _ **FUS**_ _._

There was no translation supplied. I had heard _FUS_ in the past and my mind had caught up to the word of power, supplying the translation _force_ by way of explanation, but now? There was no need for translation. The word thrummed through me, enlivening my soul like a beloved song; one I had always known, but never had the range to sing.

I fell, unable to hold my paltry mortal flesh up any longer; uncaring of where it toppled.

When the song stopped, the world went black.

–

I was aware of a cool roughness against my face and opened my eyes, to find myself splayed out on the rocky ground on my belly, with my cheek pressing into the stone. I could see a pair of crossed legs, and raised my eyes, cheek still to the ground, to realise Faendal was sitting beside me. There was a frown on his face, and his eyes were trained on something beyond.

The stone became uncomfortable and I pushed myself up onto my hands, groaning. "Faendal," I spoke, then gasped. My voice was dry and crackly.

Faendal's garnet gaze shot to me; his eyes worried and shocked for a fleeting moment, before they grew more measured. "Here," he passed me the water skin that he'd been holding in his hand.

I took it gratefully, gulping down mouthfuls of the precious liquid.

"You're going to make yourself sick," he reached for the skin. I relinquished it, coughing and spluttering as some of the water tried to drown me.

"See?" he said pointedly, then rose, extending his hand. "Can you stand?"

I nodded, unable to speak as I continued to cough. Faendal 'tsked' and thumped my back a few times, until the coughing fit passed. "Yes," I supplied needlessly, reaching up to take his offered hand, relieved to hear that I sounded more like myself again. "I can stand."

Once on my feet again, I stared around the cavern. It looked just as it had earlier. Beams of light, grey stone wall, ferns, moss, open coffin and fallen draugr, burial urns-"

I grabbed hold of Faendal's arm; my eyes widening as I turned back to look at the change; the crumpled draugr before the tomb Faendal had been trying to open.

"There _was_ a draugr?" I spluttered. "Faendal – what happened?"

Faendal steadied me, looking grim. "You tell me," he drawled, casting me a wary sideways glance.

I blinked a little; my eyelids feeling scratchy and fluttery, and carefully turned around to regard the grey wall of ancient script. I could make out the scratchings between the others, where the blue light had emanated from, only it was no longer glowing. The word _FUS_ stared up at me as featureless as the words around it.

I shook my head, raising my fingers to the dull scratchings, and heard Faendal intake a hiss of breath.

"What are you-!"

"It's all right," I cut him off, pressing my fingers to the marks. "See? It's...gone now," I didn't know how to explain what had happened, and truthfully, wasn't certain I should. The ancient Nord magic I had been seeking; the way to use Ulfric's words against him; seemed suddenly, ridiculously within reach, though I still felt as though a part of the puzzle was missing. I understood _FUS_ , with a greater certainty than I had before the wall, but I didn't know how to _use_ it.

" _Fus_ ," I whispered the word experimentally. As if to confirm my feeling, nothing happened.

Faendal reached out and drew my hand from the wall carefully, with his eyes on my face the entire while.

"Celeste," he turned me to him, grasping both of my shoulders so I had to look at him when I didn't drag my eyes from the wall straight away. "Tell me what happened to you."

His tone commanded an answer, but I had nothing, really, to give him.

I gaped for a moment, blinking again at the roughness behind my eyes, and shrugged my shoulders in his hands. "I don't know, I felt..." I uttered in a small squeak of a voice. "Wind. Strong wind, and I was blinded and then, nothing. What did you see?" I implored, expecting the worst. Had he seen the swirling blue that had become white light? Had he heard the word _FUS_ as it had impacted on me and possessed every fibre of my being?

Faendal released my shoulders, taking a step back and glaring sideways at me. "You saw something that I didn't, insisted on touching it, and promptly fainted. Probably some kind of magic."

"Oh," I looked down, flushing.

"Oh, it didn't end there. Whatever you touched activated the tomb. It opened and that monster," Faendal threw a frustrated hand out toward the crumpled draugr, "crawled out and started shouting at me," he turned his eyes back to me.

I glanced over Faendal fearfully, noticing what I hadn't before; blood. Ruby trails, trickling down from his hair to mark the side of his face with thin red lines; his leg with spidery-trails of dried red splayed upon it.

"You're injured!" I reached for my pack, then realised it wasn't there.

"I've already helped myself to what potions you had," he swooped down to pick up my pack, then passed it to me with a wry tilt of his head and a smirk. "You should have seen me _before_ the potions."

"Oh – Divines Faendal. I'm so sorry," I stammered, feeling wan. "We have to get you out of here," I glanced around the beautiful, accursed placed, searching for an exit. "You need a healer."

Faendal paused for a moment, staring at me as though to check I was sincere, then laughed a little, shaking his head. "Don't worry yourself about me," he patted me on the back suddenly, then stepped down to the platform and gave the crumpled draugr a solid kick. "With all the loot this beast was hoarding, I'm sure I'll be able to afford a few potions when we get back to Riverwood."

I relaxed a little at his returned, more easy demeanour, and gingerly stepped toward him, expecting my legs to wobble and my tread to be unsteady after my...episode.

It wasn't. If anything, I felt more sure-footed than I had earlier, as though the wall had revived me. I hesitated, frowning at myself, and looked down to my palms. The usually pale ridges were full of grime, and there were red welts; the beginnings of blisters, at the tops of my palms, where my fingers began; where the handle of the bow had been rubbing while I gripped it. But there was nothing unusual there. They were still my hands. I patted myself down; feeling the soft wool of the coat Sigrid had loaned me. I was still me.

 _Then_ I remembered why I had agreed to come to the Barrow in the first place. To find out if I was Dragonborn.

Did whatever had happened at the wall confirm it? Is _that_ why Farengar had insisted it be _I_ who made the journey – because he knew of the wall, and could hardly bring it to me to test his theory?

 _What about the dragonstone?_

Yes, surely it would have more answers for me than the strange wall of foreign, magical words. I turned around and looked for my longbow first. It wasn't far, lying on a smooth jut of rock, and I jogged to it, picking it up in the hand that had the least amount of blisters.

"Did you find the dragonstone?" I called out to Faendal, turning to walk back to the platform where he was still lingering.

Faendal gave the crumpled draugr another kick. "Yes," he waved toward the now-open coffin. "But, I didn't touch it."

"Thank you," I was relieved as I stepped to the coffin and peered inside, glancing around the dirty base until my eyes rested on a slab of dusty, carved grey stone, sporting similar designs to the arced wall that bore the scratchy writing behind me.

It was cracked and severely age-worn around the outer edges, but it wasn't glowing blue anywhere so I felt confident that I could simply reach in and pick it up without fainting.

 _Is this it_ , I wondered? I grit my teeth and heaved it onto the edge of the coffin, to look over it. _Does this thing say that I'm Dragonborn?_

I blew the dust from its surface, allowing some of the cracks to become more visible as the particles left the raised surface but clung to the etchings.

Faendal was by my side then, leaning over my shoulder to look at it. "What is it?" he asked with evident interest. "And why would your client send _you_ after it?"

I took in the carved lines with interest, realising suddenly that I recognised them. "It's a map," I told him, startled even as I said it. "Just a map of Skyrim. Why did Farengar want me to retrieve a blasted _map_?" I turned to Faendal for answers as an indignant frustration swelled within me, threatening to burst.

The elf held up his hands, taking a step back. "You tell me."

My anger ebbed, and I felt my shoulders fall a little. "Sorry, Faendal. It's just..." I shook my head, turning back to regard the form of the familiar plains and crags. "I expected some answers..."

The elf didn't answer me, instead leaning back on the coffin and waiting for me to be ready, in silence.

I inspected the map further, tracing my hands around its edges. The only thing setting it apart from other maps of Skyrim were the star-like etchings at seemingly random intervals.

 _They must be a code,_ I decided, wiping some of the dust out of the little star close to Solitude. With some effort, I turned the stone over, and faced the same spidery script that littered the wall behind me.

"Ah," I huffed, feeling foolish for growing so frustrated at Farengar's quest before I'd inspected the _whole_ dragonstone properly. "There we have it," I whispered. _This_ must have been what Farengar needed.

Faendal glanced down again, then I felt his eyes back on me. "Can you read what it says?" he asked carefully.

I shook my head. "No," I whispered. "But I think I know somebody who can. Come on," I balanced the stone with one hand while I retrieved my pack and swung it around next to it. "Help me with this a moment. Then we can leave."

Faendal hesitated before assisting me, and I noticed that he tried to touch as little of the stone as possible as we eased it into my pack. When it was secured, he helped me to shoulder my pack, and we fell into a subdued silence, as Faendal led our way out of the Barrow, and into the cold brightness of a clear afternoon.

I breathed in the clean air with relish, closing my eyes as snow dusted my cheeks.

"Well, I'm glad that's over," Faendal quipped, with an added sigh of relief.

I grinned at him, agreeing.

Little had I known then; retrieving the dragonstone was just the beginning.

* * *

 _A/n: Cake-san, agreed; Faendal is the best ^_^ writing him has been more fun than I could have expected._


	18. Hope

_Chapter 18: Hope_

Night had fallen by the time Faendal and I reached Riverwood. It was an odd feeling to observe Alvor's shop through the gloom; the orange glow of the forge against the inky backdrop of night. We had not been gone an entire day. It felt as though weeks had passed since I had last laid eyes upon it.

"Here we are, then," Faendal turned to me with a bright, eager anticipation twinkling in his sharp eyes. He held out his hand in farewell. "Returned as promised, with stories to tell that nobody will believe."

I huffed as I shook his hand, then gave in to an impulse and drew him into a hug. The elf spluttered in surprise, which made me laugh all the more.

"Thank you," I squeezed his shoulders, meeting his garnet gaze with all the friendliness he deserved.

He looked exasperated and indignantly readjusted his armour, but the expression was tinged with a flush of what I took for pride. "I know that you mean to return to Whiterun at once," his eyes flickered to my backpack, where the dragonstone was hidden away. "But if you find yourself in Riverwood again, come by the mill and say 'hi'. And, as for _this_ old thing," he added loftily, outstretching his hand. With a double-take, I realised suddenly that he wanted the longbow over my shoulder, which I had forgotten about. I passed it hastily to him.

He lifted it; drew the string back experimentally, _much_ farther than I was able to, then handed it back to me. "This bow _will_ serve you well, over time. Keep practising what we began today."

I nodded, suppressing a wince as the wooden handle grazed my blisters when I clasped a hand around it. "I will."

He smiled fondly and reached forward to tousle my hair. "If you would only _remain_ in Riverwood, I would teach you all I know."

"Get off!" I swatted him, laughing. The strangely affectionate gesture had been entirely unexpected and considering that we were _supposed_ to be parting as equals, as comrades, I found it a little condescending. "You will be too busy wooing Camilla to help anyone else, if you get your way," I reminded him.

"True," he laughed. "Just – think about it," he flashed me a sideways smile.

"I will," I promised.

We parted; he for the Valerius' shop and I for Alvor and Sigrid's home.

As tempting as it was to stay in Riverwood with Hadvar's family and learn to shoot a bow from the expert mer, I was wary of taking advantage of these good people while my funds were out of reach. Besides, my priority was to return the dragonstone to Farengar, and learn from him what I could about this Dragonborn matter. The word _Fus_ hung in the forefront of my mind, demanding acknowledgement and something _more_ of me that I couldn't yet put into action. I mulled over it curiously. Why, if whatever had happened at the wall had taught me its true meaning, could I not throw _Fus_ with my voice, as Ulfric Stormcloak did?

I lingered in a moment of indecision, warring with the prospect of returning to Whiterun at once for my answers. From the landing, I glanced toward the gate that led out of Riverwood; into the blackness beyond.

 _No_. I shook my head at myself and proceeded into the cottage. It was late; too late to be wandering the wilds of Skyrim on my own, and the day had been so strenuous that I felt I deserved a night's rest.

Besides, Sigrid had asked that I stop by to let them know I was okay, and I didn't want to disappoint her.

I found Alvor and Sigrid at the dinner table; Dorthe must have already been abed. Both stood the moment I entered and expressed their relief; Sigrid darted forward to hug me and Alvor rumbled a few quiet words to the Gods as he lowered his head. I felt a pang of tenderness toward the couple; they had been waiting up for me.

Despite my tiredness, I rallied some energy and sat with them a while. With a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of fragrant stew before me, I regaled them with a bard's tale that would have sounded ludicrous to my ears, had I not experienced the events for myself. I left off only the final incident at the grey wall, for fear of what they might make of it. I wanted to know what it meant before I told them or anyone else that I could understand the language of the dragons.

–

For the first time in many months, I slept late. Once I realised this, I prepared for my journey hastily, annoyed that I had wasted a perfectly good morning.

But once I was ready and arrived upstairs, my frustration ebbed. If I had risen with the sun and set out as planned, I would have missed the letter I had been so eagerly anticipating.

The family weren't to be seen; I assumed they were all hard at work given the hour; but on the dining table was food and tea aplenty, and propped up before the place I usually sat at was a letter. I grasped it and read:

 _C P c/o A & S Ebonhand  
Riverwood_

I couldn't hold back my relief as I clutched the letter to my chest and laughed. Word from Hadvar!

I turned it over and broke the seal. While I unfolded, I acknowledged and stored that Hadvar's aunt and uncle's surname was _Ebonhand_ , not _Reidarsson,_ as I had assumed. Given the resemblance between uncle and nephew, it told me Hadvar's mother must have been Alvor's sister.

I sat idly, uncaring of where, and poured over the letter. A single page written in the small, neat script of a hand that wrote well and frequently.

Giddy excitement made me flush, and I took a breath, reminding myself that this was a letter detailing my fate, not a _love_ letter. Only barely succeeding in calming myself, I read the opening lines:

 _Apologies for the delay in my correspondence. Caution insists I refrain from the salutation I wish to offer, though I suspect my superiors are well-aware of my alignment to your fair self, for it is only possible to hide so much from men and women trained to read others._

My flush renewed; my heart fluttered at his simple, restrained words, for they managed to express his yearning. _His yearning for me_ , I made myself acknowledge. How _had_ hewanted to greet me? What hadn't he been able to hide from his superiors?

I read on quickly:

 _Regarding the Helgen incident, I give you assurances that there is no bounty on you. The Legion is not seeking you. However when I brought your name forward to the General, he told me he had frozen your finances for reasons that he was unwilling to divulge. He insisted it was a delicate affair, and that until he was able to settle the matter personally he would keep the account safe in the name of the Emperor, until such time as the name Passero was cleared of all suspicion connected to it._

 _Suspicion_? I crossed my brows, re-reading the sentence. _Delicate affair?_ The Legion had frozen my account for some reason _other_ than Helgen? I wracked my brain to try and figure out what it could be. Did they assume I was a spy? That didn't make any sense if they weren't hunting me!

I wracked my brain but came up with no plausible cause – I had already given them my report of the night Ulfric had murdered the High King. I had nothing they could possibly want - _except!_

I paled, swallowing down a bitter sense of betrayal. _Money_. The Empire had seized my family's account with the intention of _using_ it to fund the war effort. It wasn't about _me_ at all.

I made myself read on, my spirits dampened:

 _I am sorry, and he would not accept me in your place to speak for you._ _I can only hope that you know of what he speaks. It is safe for you to return to Solitude, when you wish it, and when you arrive, seek out the General and finalise – whatever it may be._

 _I wish I could meet you here, but I have already been assigned to a garrison in the Pale and by the time you read this letter, I will have been there for several days already as I'm due to leave at once._

 _I will write to my aunt and uncle before I go and tell them of my assignment, but I will mention nothing of your affairs. I leave that to your discretion. But they will safeguard you, should you need some time, and they will provide you with whatever you require. Please, think about it. If I'm honest, it would relieve me if you remained with them for the duration of this war, but I will not try to decide your path for you. If my desire offends you, please ignore it. I'm a foolish, homesick soldier, and your acquaintance is of more importance to me than my wants. Our farewell filled me with a brightness this war will not cast shade upon, try as it might, and regardless of what the future holds, I will treasure that moment for the rest of my days._

My smile fell and I was struck by a poignant ache that twisted at my heart.

 _I long to hear of Riverwood and how your appeal to the Jarl went; I long to hear from you at all._

 _Hadvar_

I closed my eyes and slumped into the seat, sighing a long, shaky breath as I clutched the letter to my chest. I yearned for a second page - no. I wished he was _here_ andnot in some freezing camp in the harsh northern extents of Skyrim.

It was not long before the information in the letter caught my attention. With a groan, I leaned down and rested my forehead against the scrubbed table with a dull _thunk_. No money. No access to it until I returned to Solitude and faced General Tullius, with no idea if any appeal I made might feasibly release it, if my suspicions were correct.

 _What's changed? You had no money yesterday. But you have some loot,_ I reminded myself. _Sell it. Earn your keep. Make do with what is before you._

I rose, nodding in determination. The news of my finances changed nothing about the day before me. I was to go to Whiterun, deliver the dragonstone, and have my answers from Farengar. After that? Divines only knew.

I cast the future from my mind and wilfully focussed on the now.

–

After a warm farewell and a promise to return as soon as I could, I left Hadvar's family – the Ebonhands, I reminded myself – to their business. Dorthe had been working at the forge with her father, and remained with him as Sigrid accompanied me along the road out of town, a basket of fresh vegetables harvested from her garden on her hip. She had told me they were bound for Whiterun in a day or so to meet with Adrianne.

I was so pleased by this that I decided I would stay in Whiterun until they came, in the bed that Lydia had assured me would always be mine at Breezehome. Aside from the joy it would bring me to acquaint them with Lydia, I knew that Dorthe and Lucia would make playmates of one another, and it would do the two serious little girls who spent most of their time in the company of adults some good to be able to run about with and talk to someone their own age.

After making good time along what was becoming my 'usual' path to Whiterun, and encountering nothing more threatening than a wild fox who darted away as soon as it sighted me, I descended the trail onto the plains, and was granted entry to the city before the sun had set.

I wanted to go to Lydia and tell her everything, but I made directly for Dragonsreach instead, and paused by the Gildergreen to re-braid my hair and glance over my appearance. I untucked the Passero seal from my coat so it was visible around my neck. I had cleaned Sigrid's coat and scarf that morning but upon returning both to her she had insisted I consider them my own, for they suited me better than they did her. Under the grey wool, I wore the Legion armour that had seen me through both Helgen and the Barrow, despite it singing my allegiance to any who would observe me. I looked a little travel-worn, but after a few more brief checks, I reminded myself that I was returning to the court mage after a retrieval mission through a draugr-infested ruin, _not_ appearing before the Jarl.

Flexing my fingers around the bow that Faendal had told me to continue carrying, I ascended, and made directly for Farengar's office. I spared a glance at the Jarl's throne; he was no longer in session, or anywhere in the throne room, for that matter.

Farengar was in his office, but he was not alone. I waited in the open entryway, staring at the mage and his visitor.

"And you are _certain_ you can translate it using _this_ text?" his visitor asked; a woman with a voice so barbed and officious that I crossed my brows, wondering how I recognised it.

" _Yes_ ," Farengar insisted impatiently, as though he had expressed this a number of times already. "It's clearly First Era, perhaps older. It is just the sort of codex we have been searching for."

The woman stood, and I caught a hint of blonde hair and a pointed chin under her dark brown hood. "All right. Good. This is progress, then. My employers are growing anxious and _I_ am growing weary of speculation. They are _here_ , so we have to work faster."

Farengar seemed more excited by this. "I must show you what _else_ I've found," he reached for the book before them and flicked through pages hurriedly. " _Very_ intriguing, and your _employers_ may-"

"You have a visitor," the woman cut him off.

My attention snapped back to her, and I bit back a gasp as I looked into the hard, icy eyes of the Breton publican of the Sleeping Giant Inn; Delphine. Of course I had _recognised_ her at once; but had not placed her here. There had been no reason to place the slim woman with her neatly-pulled back hair and blue dress in the boots of this warrior-woman in her dark, worn leather armour.

"Ah! You didn't die, then," was Farengar's greeting to me.

I ignored his impertinence; barely heard it in fact, for I was still staring at Delphine. Why was she here? And what had they been discussing? Something a mite more important than the rotation of ale barrels.

Recognition flared on her face and she pulled back her hood. "You?!" she accused in an incredulous hiss.

Remembering suddenly how unhelpful she had been at the inn, I pursed my lips and forced a mask of composure as I faced Farengar. "Yes, I am returned."

"Do you have it?" he asked hurriedly, tearing around his desk and holding his hands out. "Did you retrieve the dragonstone?" his eyes glinted with animation from underneath his hood.

"Yes," I repeated, stepping further into his room. I slung my bow onto my shoulder and backpack onto the table before me. "I have kept my part in our bargain," I untied the straps, then faltered; a deadpan pause. "I expect you to keep yours."

"Of course, of course," he waved for me to continue. For once, his impatience seemed overcome by excitement.

I didn't torture him any longer, withdrawing it from the pack and settling it onto the tabletop between us. I could feel Delphine's eyes on me all the while, rather than Farengar's prize, but pointedly ignored her notice.

Farengar leaned over it, reverently running his hand along a cracked edge as he muttered a thanks I barely heard. It was then that Delphine tore her sharp eyes from me, placed her hands on the desk, and peered over the artefact from the other side of the table, her eyes wide, and wild.

"It's not your thanks I want, Farengar," I told him sternly, stepping aside to give him the space to inspect it closer. "I want answers. This was not all I found in Bleak Falls Barrow."

Delphine's eyes shot to me, but I kept my eyes on the court mage.

It took Farengar a moment to realise what I had said; his focus was locked on the map. After a beat he shook himself out of a daze, and glanced up to me.

"As I suspected. You stood before a word wall, didn't you?" he asked quietly, but somehow bluntly, as though still testing me.

Delphine made an aghast sound of disbelief. In the corner of my eye I saw movement - she was moving around the desk, to our side.

I resisted the urge to grind my teeth as my jaw locked – what was she _doing_ here? Why did I have to discuss this in front of her? I tried to ignore her, and focused on Farengar. "I did."

The mage stood tall and _chuckled_ , crossing his arms as he turned his eyes to the floor, as though some joke had been shared between us. "Oh, the Divines _do_ have a sense of humour."

Before I could decide if I was angry or scared, Delphine blocked my view of Farengar. She crouched to my level and stared into my eyes, searching with those icy blue daggers as though the answers _I_ sought might be found within myself.

On instinct, I took a step back, but she grasped my shoulders. "This is no time to jest, child," she told me sternly as she continued her examination.

"Unhand me," I grated in an undertone. I was tired of this contrary woman's appearance and attitude.

She complied, staggering a step back and releasing her grip. Her gaze did not soften, and her face wore no remorse. "I apologise, but as I said; this is no laughing matter. Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm not the one who is laughing," I managed through clenched teeth, turning pointedly from her in dismissal; my accusing eyes fixed on Farengar's form.

He was still chuckling to himself, but chose that moment to intervene. "Delphine, _peace_. This is Samuel Passero's daughter. Her name is Celeste," he put a hand on the hard woman's shoulder, trying to make her turn away.

She shrugged it off. Her brows crossed in concern; her eyes clouded with horrified recognition. " _Who_?"

" _You_ knew my father?" I raised my eyebrows at her callously; determined to answer nothing until I knew why she was here.

She shook her head, surprising me a little. She took another step back, wavering, and thoughtfully cast her eyes to the ground as she leant a hand on the table, for support. "No," she replied. "There was never any cause to know him," she glanced back up, searching me anew.

Her voice carried the same hard-edge as before, but there was an added level of remorse to her tone – and gaze – that somewhat appeased my umbrage.

"Well, then," I returned my expectant eyes to Farengar and let the woman continue her assessment as she liked. "As recompense for putting my life in danger for this artefact, I would appreciate if you would stop laughing and explain what happened to me instead. I nearly died, several times, and while my life might be worth _nothing_ to you-"

Farengar stood taller and waved his hand, cutting me off. "I am not laughing at you, Miss Passero, but merely the incredulity of the situation Skyrim finds itself in. Each of us manage stress in our own way, do we not?" he cast a pointed glance at Delphine, but shook his head when she didn't take whatever hint he was giving her. Her eyes were still fixed on me; still unashamedly staring.

"Leaving the explanations to me, then," he shook his head, then offered me the seat behind me. "Please. You had best get comfortable."

"I would rather stand," I admitted, feigning calmness, but it was difficult to feel settled with Delphine observing me so.

"Suit yourself," he walked back around his desk to lean over the book he and Delphine had been inspecting when I had arrived. "You want to know why you were able to activate the word wall in Bleak Falls Barrow?"

I started to nod, but changed my mind, and shook my head. "No. I know why you sent me to face the wall. You were testing to see if I am Dragonborn," I narrowed my eyes at him. He looked ever-so-slightly taken aback, and I felt a tiny surge of satisfaction.

"You didn't believe me when I told you I could hear what the dragon at Helgen said," I continued, "so you sent me, telling me nothing of what I might face, to prove my claims."

My jaw was hurting, and I realised I was gritting my teeth again.

 _Calm down_ , I urged. There was no reason to be angry; I had lived and won. I had completed Farengar's test. If I grew angry now, I might never learn what it meant to be Dragonborn.

Farengar opened his mouth.

" _You_ were in _Helgen_ when the dragon attacked?" Delphine spluttered.

I maintained Farengar's gaze, ignoring Delphine's interjection. In the corner of my eye, she ran her hand over her head, and then she stepped past me, to fall into the seat I had refused to take.

I leaned over the desk toward Farengar and took a deep breath to regain a semblance of calm. "What does it mean to be Dragonborn in today's Skyrim, Farengar?" I asked steadily. "I am no warrior. I will never be a mythical dragon slayer. I'm a _bard_ , for Shor's sake," I whispered the last.

Farengar's expression had grown deadly serious while I talked. His glinting eyes, barely visible under his hood, flickered over me uncertainly. His mouth opened, and Delphine interrupted _yet again._

"I must go," she stood abruptly. "This changes everything."

Farengar faltered, nodding a farewell toward the woman now standing beside me. "Akatosh guide you, Delphine."

"Something like that," she muttered grimly, unimpressed. When she didn't leave, I glanced at her. She was waiting expectantly with her hand held out to me.

I turned my eyes down to her hand, crossing my brows, and took it. Regardless of what she was doing here, my return was automatically executed.

Perhaps the corner of her mouth rose, or perhaps it was just the shape of her mouth changed as she spoke. "Stay alive," she ordered shrewdly.

I didn't like the way her guarded eyes raked over me, and released her hand hastily, trying to keep from shuddering, or appearing as ruffled as I felt. "That is the plan."

"Good. Send me a copy of that, when you've deciphered it."

The last was an order sent Farengar's way, and then she raised her hood and was gone.

It was as though a looming shadow that might crush me had left the room with her; I sighed with relief, suddenly aware that I had been holding my breath, and reconsidered my childish determination to remain standing. I sank into the chair Delphine had fleetingly occupied, and glanced up to the mage.

Farengar was standing over his desk, watching me closely.

I frowned, feeling helpless and suddenly very lost and small. "Please, say something."

"You are Dragonborn."

I nodded, though my heart thudded at the confirmation. "I guessed as much. But what does it mean? I can't slay dragons."

Farengar smirked. "It means _so_ much more than that. It means you have been blessed and carry the blood of Akatosh in your veins, which offers you certain...privileges that mere mortals such as Ulfric Stormcloak can only obtain through decades of diligent training. Among other things," he reconsidered.

I shuddered a breath, before managing quietly; "Was...my father Dragonborn?"

Farengar shrugged uncertainly. "I am not sure it works that way, Miss Passero. It is Akatosh who determines who is Dragonborn."

I shook my head, confused given what little knowledge I _did_ have about people who were Dragonborn before me. "But, Saint Alessia was Dragonborn, and she passed it down through the Septim line as part of her promise to Akatosh-"

"And the Oblivion Crisis brought an end to that line," he held his hands out, as though it explained everything. "With no Septims alive and no need to maintain the barriers between Mundus and Oblivion via the covenant of Saint Alessia, what further need could Tamriel have of a Dragonborn? No, Miss Passero," he shook his head. "By this example alone, it is clear that a Dragonborn is chosen, not born into the role.

"And so I suppose your next question will be, why you? Or what role?" he pressed on.

I nodded morosely, uncertain of his hurried reasoning and wondering how he could be so certain.

"I don't know," he stated, pursing his lips.

My eyes snapped back up to him, wide and accusing. "You _promised_ me that you would give me answers. You can't even tell me _why_ this is happening to me?"

"Calm down," Farengar bade, holding his hands out. "I can't tell you why _you_ were chosen. But I can speculate why a Dragonborn has risen. In fact, I'm surprised you weren't able to figure _that_ out for yourself, given how much you have already deduced."

I wanted to shout at him for stringing me along. "I assume it has something to do with the dragon appearing in Helgen," I muttered.

He inclined his head. "Precisely. For, who better to combat a dragon, than a mortal with the soul of one, who might match their might against them?"

"I don't have any _might_ ," I insisted; a childish whine that made me flush with embarrassment when I heard myself.

Farengar smiled knowingly. "That is the incredible nature of being Dragonborn, Miss Passero. It elevates those with the blood of Akatosh to the ranks of mythology. You are His servant, so He grants you certain...powerful instincts, that will come as naturally to you as singing and speaking does, once you understand how to use them."

 _He means the thu'um_ , I realised. Fear and excitement curled through me, urging me to locate Ulfric Stormcloak at once and shout him into Oblivion. I forced myself to remain seated; reminded myself that I while I understood _Fus_ , I was yet to master it.

He sat in the chair opposite me; leant back and crossed his arms, misinterpreting my silence. "It is difficult to believe, isn't it? But it is not every day that you discover you're a living legend. I didn't believe it when you stood before me last, but," he waved his hand over the dragonstone. "I am a man of logic. I won't ignore what is before me."

I swallowed, glancing down to the dragonstone; ran my gaze over the lines of the map. What did he expect me to do now – hunt down the dragon that had attacked Helgen? Surely not.

Remembering the script on the other side of the stone, I rose and began to turn it. "There's some writing, too. Can you read what it says?" I asked, grunting with effort as I eased the stone onto its reverse side.

Farengar rose and placed his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning over the dragonstone curiously. "Not right now," he mused, frowning. "This is the language of the dragons – the very language you are on the path to learning for yourself," he cast me a somewhat envious glance. "It is a shame that your instinct for _hearing_ the dragon tongue doesn't allow you to _read_ it, but I assume that is because the scribing was completed by dragon priests and thus by nature, a translation in itself-"

" _Farengar_ ," I cut him off, surprising even myself at my terseness.

The mage inclined his head and his gaze returned to the stone. "I am working on a way to translate these scripts, based on some other texts-"

"That's what you were discussing with Delphine, when I arrived," I said in a rush. I fixed the mage with a stoic expression, praying that he would tell me if I remained calm. "What has she got to do with this?"

Farengar huffed a laugh. "Everything and nothing, in a sense," he met my eyes.

I took my seat again. "Who is she?" I asked carefully.

"She is a village inn-keeper-"

"No she isn't!" I cut him off, more frustrated.

He smiled sadly and shook his head. "I apologise. She is being hunted, and I might sign her death sentence if I tell you, and mine if she finds out I did. Perhaps she might tell you her story, some day."

"You don't trust me, after all you know about me?" I asked him, narrowing my eyes. "I have been completely honest with you."

He shook his head again. "This is a matter which is too delicate for your ears, until such a time as she decides you need to know."

Fearing I would yell at Farengar if I remained in his presence much longer, I stood hurriedly and collected my pack. "Then our time together is at its end."

"Miss Passero," there was a wince, and a warning, in his tone. "I understand your frustration but our time together is just beginning, I'm afraid. Your presence is required further in Whiterun until I say otherwise, to ensure your safety-"

I threw my pack over my shoulder, minding my bow, and shook my head. "You can't keep me here. Dragonborn or not."

"But the Jarl can," he countered reasonably, but in a way that dared me to speak otherwise. "Dragonborn or not," he added with a tilt of his head; then his focus shifted beyond me, as his head lifted slightly. "Jarl Balgruuf," he welcomed in a bright tone.

I turned, and saw the Jarl of Whiterun standing in the open entry. The fearsome Irileth was by his side; her eyes were trained on me and her hand hovered over the hilt of her sword.

I lowered my eyes, dipping into a curtsy as I flushed. "My Jarl," I uttered quietly.

"Farengar," I felt the Jarl's eyes on me. "You aren't harassing Celeste with your unending questions, are you?"

In acknowledging my name I was granted leave to look up, and was much relieved by the kindness I found in Balgruuf's eyes. A part of me knew that it was kindness for my father's sake, but with no friends in the room, I took what I could, and smiled gratefully in return.

"Of course not, my Jarl," Farengar replied. "She has been harassing me with hers," he added, with some amusement.

Irileth raised an eyebrow at this, but the Jarl burst into a great, booming laugh and held out his hand to me. "Come, Miss Passero. I will save you from him; or him from you, whichever the case may be. I have something I want to speak to you about."

I bit my bottom lip as I took the Jarl's hand; my frustration disarmed. "Thank you, my Jarl," I managed.

He tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow and turned us, exiting Farengar's office without another word.

Jarl Balgruuf wordlessly led me along the corridor beside Farengar's office and up a flight of stairs; his Dunmer housecarl shadowed his every move, just as wordlessly.

I allowed myself to be led, desperate to ask what he wanted and where we were going, and just how much of the conversation with Farengar he had heard. Did the Jarl know that I was Dragonborn? Did Irileth? Was I being taken to a prison cell? Farengar had made it sound as though I was now, albeit regrettably, under arrest.

We broached the landing and I took in the sight of a spacious war room. My confusion doubled.

"Farengar told me his suspicions after you left, Celeste," the Jarl spoke as he directed me to then deposited me in a chair. It was before a wooden table on which a large map of Skyrim was laid. "And I assume that what I caught of your conversation confirms his theory?" he asked steadily.

 _He already knows, but is making you say it._ I glanced from the map, my eyes fearful as they met the Jarl's. He watched me as he settled into the seat opposite me; Irileth remained by his side, as silent and watchful as ever.

I nodded, wary of the repercussions. I felt like an imposter to be exposed while those around me watched expectantly, waiting for me to perform a song I'd never learned.

The Jarl's grin widened. "Your father is smiling down on you from Sovngarde. I perceived greatness in you, Celeste Passero, and I was not incorrect to do so."

My heart thumped in my ears as a pressure eased over my shoulders, and I shook my head, somewhat desperately. "I don't understand," I implored, sounding meek to my own ears. "Tell me what I am supposed to do."

Irileth scoffed but the Jarl held up his hand, silencing her. "During this time of bloodshed between our brothers and sisters? Your job is to inspire hope."

"Hope?" I echoed, wondering if I was misunderstanding something. "But - a dragon attacked Helgen? Am I not expected to-?"

"On the contrary," the Jarl cut me off, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. His tone was easy, and patient. "Your existence might do what the Empire and Stormcloaks have failed to do, and bring an end to this war before matters get out of hand."

Still confused, I sat back. "How?" I asked dumbly.

His eyes sparkled with restrained excitement. "Greatness, Celeste. There is nothing to fear in greatness. I don't mean to frighten you, as Farengar clearly has. But your presence will unite Skyrim against this common foe."

"I am frightened," I admitted swiftly, wishing the words gone as soon as I'd said them. I sat straighter and took a steeling breath before my tongue ran away from my brain. "I'm sorry, my Jarl. If you have guidance to offer me, I will _gladly_ accept it."

"Very good," he inclined his head. "With my guidance comes a request; I would have you for my Thane."

I gaped. _This_ was unexpected.

Irileth sighed and I glanced to her quickly; she didn't look surprised, which rocked me anew. He had been _planning_ this?

"Do you accept?" he continued simply.

I shook myself out of my stupor, and stuttered. "I am - _honoured,_ but surely there are more qualified members of the court who-"

"I grow weary of adventurers, seeking my favour with their bloodied steel," he cut me off in a drone, leaning back in his chair casually, though his steely-blue eyes remained fixed determinedly on me. "And, as I told you earlier," he narrowed his eyes slightly, though not in a calculating way. "I perceive greatness in you. Being named Dragonborn confirms my intuition, and I am not a man to ignore the will of the Divines."

 _He wants to use you,_ I realised. My mind poured over the evidence supporting this, remembering how Adrianne had told me the Jarl wanted to remain neutral in the civil war; recalling how he had understood more than he said, and taken a greater interest in my plight, when I had related my whole story to him. _He hasn't been able to stop the war on his own, and believes if you are allied to him, you will do it for him._

 _What harm is there in wanting to stop bloodshed,_ I immediately countered? _If that is his motive for asking you to be elevated and honoured as Thane of Whiterun, then he is more worthy of your allegiance than you are of his regard. Do not snub_ _ **him.**_

And _this_ made my decision for me. If I was to be used by anybody for being Dragonborn, let it be Jarl Balgruuf who had respected my father, had yielded to every request I had ever made of him, and who was striving to keep the peace when everybody else would fight.

I nodded, managing a smile. "If you believe I am capable, my Jarl. It would be an honour to be your Thane."

"Good," he stood, satisfied, holding his hand out to me. I stared down at it, realising that something was expected of me, but I hardly knew what; I had not been trained for _this._

Thankfully, the Jarl gave me some instruction. "Take my hand and kiss my ring to confirm your allegiance to Whiterun Hold and its people, under my rule."

I stood hurriedly, gingerly leaning over and taking the large, warm hand in my fingertips, then leaned down to place my lips to the ruby ring on his middle finger. As I withdrew, I noticed that the beautiful jewel was carved into the likeness of a horse's head; the sigil of Whiterun. Like the Passero seal dangling around my neck, the Jarl must have used this ring to seal his official documents.

The Jarl grinned and let his hand fall. "Now rise, Thane Passero."

There was laughter in his voice, and I couldn't help but smile when the name left his lips. I had only ever heard my father called _Thane Passero_ , and whether I felt I deserved the title or not – I glowed with pride in understanding that I was following in my dear father's footsteps.

There was no further ceremony; Jarl Balgruuf said he would retire for the night, and told me to report to him at eight where I would be measured for armour befitting a Thane and assigned a housecarl of my own.

I thanked him as he departed with Irileth. My stomach fluttered with nerves and a traitorous voice in my head laughed at me, asking what I thought I was doing?

I pushed it all aside and allowed myself to bask in a fierce pride. Somehow, I had earned the favour of the mighty Jarl Balgruuf. Acknowledging this made me determined to meet whatever duty he assigned me, puppet Dragonborn or no.

As I descended the stairs from the war room, I wondered how Lydia might react to this appointment - and everything else!

A scuffle of movement in the throne room caught my attention as I alighted the final step.

Muscle wrapped around a Whiterun cuirass slammed into me, sending me flying back onto the stairs, and he crashed down on top of me.

"Ah!" I screeched.

"Sorry!" the man sobbed, rolling aside and scrambling up a few stairs on his hands before he found his feet again.

"Are you all right?" I turned, calling after him.

"I must speak to Irileth!" he called over his shoulder, racing up the stairs.

Crossing my brows at his frantic manner as the man disappeared from view, I dusted myself off. I shook my head, turning back to my path. He wouldn't find her up in the war room.

I had taken no more than two steps when a clatter of boots heralded the soldier's return. This time, I turned to face him so he wouldn't hurtle into me again.

He stopped on the bottom step and stared at me, his mouth hanging open in horror. "Where is she?" he asked in a hush; his cheeks pale his lips purpled with cold.

My heart leapt as I took in the man's haggard appearance properly. "Calm down," I tried for reason, reminding myself that as a Thane of the region, it was now my duty to offer assistance where I could. "Tell me your message for Irileth. What is the matter?"

He seemed to focus in on me suddenly and closed his mouth, swallowing noisily before shaking his head. "A serving girl will not do. It will kill us all."

With that he turned and fled up the stairs again, bellowing Irileth's name.

I raced after the man, letting his assumption pass, and cried out, " _What_ will kill us all?"

The commotion had drawn Irileth _and_ the Jarl back to the war room, as it happened. The soldier knelt hastily before his Jarl; I watched on from the landing.

"A dragon, my Jarl," he managed through his terror.

" _Dragon_?" Irileth's eyes snapped to me at once, as though it was my doing.

I baulked; rooted to the spot. _Was it?_

"It's been circling the Western watchtower the past hour, determining how best to make a meal of us!" the guard stammered, the terror thick in his throat.

"On your feet, soldier," the Jarl ordered, but his tone was patient, and his eyes flickered to me as the man complied. It wasn't judgement I saw in his regard, but surprise. "Thane Passero. You are returned already?"

"Thane?" the guard asked; the distraction not enough to mask his distress.

Dragged out of my stupor, I took a step toward him and lowered my head. "I never left, my Jarl," I spoke with as much grace as I could muster.

"I am glad," he replied officiously. "Irileth, take everyone on duty to the Western watchtower and deal with the beast that razed Helgen once and for all."

I lifted my gaze, startling inwardly when I realised the Jarl's eyes had never left me. "Thane Passero will go with you."

The blood drained from my face.

"My Jarl, _respectfully_ – she will slow us down and I have-" Irileth intoned with barely-restrained fury.

"Of those within my walls," he cut in over her; still composed, but a little louder than before, "she is the only one who has witnessed a dragon attack. You will take her, Irileth, and you will listen to and act on any and all advice she has. You and my soldiers are to protect her with your _lives._ "

After a weighty pause, she replied.

"As you command, my Jarl," Irileth lowered her eyes to hide her anger, but there was no masking why her body shook.

I bit my bottom lip as tears sprung to my eyes; I couldn't oppose the Jarl's order, particularly now I was his Thane! Why had I accepted him so swiftly? I had _known_ that he wanted to use me to help end the war, and I had assumed this meant he would parade me before his soldiers as the fabled Dragonborn and have me speak a few pretty words occasionally, but _this_? I had not been under his command for an hour, and he was sending me into the field to face a _dragon_? The beast who had destroyed an entire _town_ , and legions of the Empire's men and women, civilians, and Stormcloaks?

I sank to my knees and lowered my eyes, pleading, though my voice was barely a whisper. "My Jarl. Please. I will give any assistance that you believe me capable of giving, but I do not know how to fight a dragon. Your housecarl is right; I will be a hinderance and danger to your guards," I talked swiftly as words entered my head. "I _beg_ you; do not send me out to face the beast, for it is a fight I have no chance of winning."

There was a shuffle of footsteps and a rustle of fabric; the Jarl's hand entered my blurred vision, extended to me.

"Rise," he told me in his kind, commanding tone; the tone that suggested that his words _were_ a request, unless I opted to oppose him.

I glanced from the open palm, to his face; imploring him to change his mind. I accepted his hand and let him help me to my feet, and didn't dare say any more.

"I do not wish to use your words against you," he released me.

I shuddered, leaning a hand on the table to steady myself, wanting to throw up.

"But you stood before me only days ago and asked me to send men and women to Riverwood to fight a dragon, should it appear," he recalled calmly.

I nodded as my lip trembled, remembering. I knew what he was coming to, but there was nothing to do but let him continue his lecture.

He paced behind me; stood beside me, then placed both of his hands on the table, sighing at the map. "You assured me then that, duly warned and prepared for such an attack, my people would stand a chance of defeating this wyrm," he turned to look down at me; his expression blank but his eyes now hard. "Did you lie to me that day, or do you no longer believe this yourself?"

I lowered my eyes, unable to bear his judgement, and uncertain of how to reply. All I could do was shake my head.

I felt his gaze leave me, and his voice softened marginally. "I am under no delusion that being Dragonborn gives you...supernatural strength to overcome this beast at this time, or the Helgen incident might have ended differently. But it is my desire to send you with Irileth, not as a soldier, but an advisor. As my Thane, and as a survivor of Helgen. You are not expected to lift an axe or charge into battle, but to remain in the watchtower as proof to my men and women that a dragon does not equate to a death sentence. To lend what courage and knowledge you have from your experiences."

 _It won't be enough,_ I wanted to cry, but instead I found myself nodding. The Jarl had decreed that I go, so go I must.

"There is no time to delay," he spoke up again, louder this time. "Irileth, take Celeste under your wing, make haste to the Western watchtower, and bring down this dragon before word of it reaches the city and creates a panic we cannot hope to contain."

The Dunmer was by my side in a beat. I glanced up to her hard red eyes fearfully, feeling small and purposeless as tears shuddered in mine, but did not dare to fall. She raised an eyebrow at my response, but addressed the Jarl. "It shall be done. Come on."

The latter was aimed at me, and I followed her in a daze. Each step drew me closer to the beast I had hoped I would never see again.

–

"That's not the dragon that attacked Helgen," I crossed my brows and frowned, peering at it from the window in the watchtower we had taken refuge in.

"What? Speak up, child," Irileth barked.

The soldiers in the yard below started calling out in warning and alarm, rushing to the posts Irileth had designated when we had arrived.

I tore my eyes from the small, circling creature, high above us and posing no current threat, and faced Irileth. Seeing the dragon had not rendered me as mute and frozen with dread as I had assumed it would. "It's not the dragon that attacked Helgen," I repeated, more certain this time. "It's smaller. And it's a sort of...golden colour, I think – not black," I mused, waving my hand at the window. Both Masser and Secunda were risen, and as the circling creature descended the light of the moons played off its hide, making the scales there shimmer as though it was swimming through waves, not soaring through the sky.

"How is that helpful _or_ relevant?" Irileth scoffed, then joined me at the window, peering up for herself.

I flickered an uneasy glance the Dunmer's way; she had never hidden the fact that she didn't want me here, but to her credit, she had abided by the Jarl's orders and not simply pushed me out of the way. We had charged out of Whiterun, Irileth gathering what guards she could as we moved, and had fired question after question at me, asking for my account of what had occurred with the dragon in Helgen.

This dragon was clearly not the same one, though. Which meant that...

"There's more than one dragon in Skyrim," I muttered, closing my eyes in defeat.

As though in answer to my realisation, a furious keening scream cut through the night. My mind buzzed as the word ' _Yol'_ was uttered. The translation rippled through me like an chord on a lute; _fire._

 _It's happening again._ My eyes snapped open in time to see flames pour down from the skies in an arced wave, scrabbling for purchase on the tundra and lighting it up.

"I know how to help," I whispered suddenly. These dragon words, these _warnings_ I was hearing could help those around me.

"Enough talk," evidently, despite the chaos unfolding outside, my whisper had been heard; my shoulders were seized and Irileth was in my face. "Stay quiet and out of our way until this is over."

I nodded dumbly, stunned by her bluntness, barely hearing her as my mind ticked over what I had to do. Irileth released me and ran toward the stairs that lead to the roof, drawing her bow from her shoulder as she moved.

"If you're not going to make yourself useful, you mind her!" the Dunmer called out fiercely before she disappeared.

I stared down at my own bow, clutched in my blistered hand, and let out a shaky exhale.

"How?" a guard nearby asked, alerting me to his presence.

I turned and regarded the tall, fearful man - the same soldier who had run the message up to Dragonsreach earlier. His form was cast in half shadow, half light as the flames outside played with the shiny metal on his armour. Irileth's unkind command to _mind her_ – me – suddenly made more sense.

"How can _you_ help us?" he repeated. "How can _anybody_ help us?" he added, his voice cracking with fear.

I didn't want to startle him further, so my steps were cautious. He was young but at least three heads taller than I, and his brown eyes were wide and lost; consumed by terror. I faltered as the word _Yol_ tore through the night again, and its translation rippled through me in time. It was followed by the hissing roar of flames, and calls from beyond, to fire upon the dragon.

"I can hear what the dragon is saying," I told him quietly, and with certainty. "Each time it roars, I hear a word; ' _Yol'_ , and it breathes fire."

"Hear it? What are you _talking_ about?" he grasped his sword handle nervously, glancing around as the foundations of the watchtower shook.

Outside of the tower, the sounds of men and women screaming began to rise above the shouted orders.

"Look at me," I commanded.

He seemed unreachable; crept back toward the wall as his eyes darted around. His agape mouth quivered and quaked in time with the roars of the attacking dragon.

Uncertain of where my courage was coming from in the face of this terrified trained soldier, I closed the space between us and grasped the soldier's chin, forcing him to turn his head down and _look_ at me. I met his distant, distracted eyes.

"What is your name, soldier?" I asked flatly.

He shuddered, closing his eyes as the watchtower shook again. "Bryor Sorinsen, milady," he choked out.

"I will stand by your side, if you will mine, Bryor Sorinsen," I told him sternly. A small, terrified part of me begged me to stop; to do as Irileth said, and remain hidden.

 _No._ If I did not try, then everybody would die. I _knew_ I could help the men and women fighting the dragon if I could just make one of them believe in me.

"I can hear what it says," I repeated pointedly, and he seemed to understand me this time; his head tilted slightly, and his brows furrowed. My confidence built as his features changed. "I can tell you, and anyone else who will listen, when it is about to attack, and we can take cover. But I can't go out there alone - I am no fighter. I need you to find courage, now, before it is too late."

He stood taller and leaned back a little to regard me, though his mouth still uselessly opened and closed.

 _"Yol!"_

"Fire," I whispered; my eyes widened and I grabbedd his arm in a final attempt to drag him outside. "Come with me."

The flames of the dragon's shout lit up the world both outside and in; it had aimed for our window. The man startled in my grasp, but I managed to retain my hold.

I wasn't certain if the inferno or my words propelled Bryor into action, but he drew his sword and found his feet beside me. I released him and we ran toward the exit to face the dragon and the fire storm it was raining down on the Western watchtower.

* * *

 _A/n: thanks for the reviews. This was a more difficult chapter to get into because the temptation of spending more time in Riverwood was so strong. I love writing Faendal, Alvor, Sigrid and Dorthe (I hope nobody minds at the liberty taken to give them the surname Ebonhand; if Celeste is going to remain closely acquainted with the family, it seemed silly that they not have a surname). But I pushed myself out of Riverwood, much like Celeste did._  
 _Moniquita - in answer to your wondering about shouting at this point - not quite yet ;) she's still missing - well, the above chapter should make clear what exactly :D_  
 _Cake-san - :O you're relaying this story to a friend? I'm...so, so gratified! I love the idea of A Bard's Tale becoming more like an actual bard's tale, by you passing it on :)_


	19. Calling

_Chapter 19: Calling_

I leapt down the ramp outside of the Western watchtower, ignoring my base instinct to run away from the sounds of fire and fighting, and darted behind a tumble of rubble to its side in an attempt to keep out of sight. I had an idea of how to help, but no plan as such, and I was now exposed. But I also had a Whiterun guard by my side, I reminded myself, again and again, before the panic could set in. I could warn him of any impending attacks, and he could fight for both of us. We would be _fine_.

Bryor crashed down next to me, slamming his back against the rock as he glanced toward me expectantly.

I turned my eyes up from him, toward the sky, unable to maintain his fear-filled gaze. _We'll be fine._

The dragon, which _was_ a golden colour, and definitely smaller than the first I'd encountered, was a hazy blot of half limed, glittering scales and half shadow high above, swerving between the pillars of smoke its fires had created as a frustratingly effective camouflage. Over the crackling of the flame, I could hear the whiz of arrows as they were fired toward the beast, and the soldiers shouting orders as they fled from one point of cover to the next.

" _YOL!_ "

"Get down!" I screamed over the roar of the dragon's cry, covering my ears as _fire_ resounded through my veins, setting every nerve alight. I pressed my back into the uneven stones, wishing to become one of them, and waited for the roaring, surging flames to cease. Bryor immediately did what I did, glancing fearfully to the sky as he ducked against the rubble pile as bright flames crashed onto the ground and lit up our surrounds.

When no more explosions came, the sounds of a soldier screaming in pain replaced it. I turned over immediately, lying on the rubble and searching the skies. The dragon had retreated to the high and relative safety of the smoke towers again, drifting lazily between them, with its head turned down to watch; to regard its carnage.

 _Is it proud_? I narrowed my eyes at the creature, but shuddered as my eyes were drawn to what it looked down upon. Soldiers were labouring to help the guard who had been caught by the recent inferno, smothering the flames with their cloaks.

I shook my head with no true idea of what to do, and turned to Bryor. "I have to get closer, so I can warn the others when it's about to strike. Do you have a bow?" I asked him.

He nodded, shuddering as well, but sheathed his sword and retrieved a short bow from his back.

"Good," I un-shouldered mine, for appearances sake; shame creeping into my belly at the knowledge that my bow – or rather, my weak _arm_ – would not do us any good. I placed an arrow in it, with shaking hands, and then threw Bryor a nod, casting my eyes back to the skies. "Let's g- no, wait!" I hissed, dipping down again as a large shadow whooshed over our hiding place.

The dragon swooped down, snapping its mouthful of sharp teeth at the cluster of guards attempting to help the one that had been burned.

" _Gahvon mal joorre! Krif los daniik_ ," it hissed.

The alarmed guards leapt out of the way to avoid the dragon as it skirted just above the ground, impervious to its own flames, and the translation of what it had said scalded me; _Yield little mortals! Your fight is doomed._

"We're not _doomed_ ," I whispered petulantly, realising that it was _playing_ with us. My eyes followed the dragon as it rose, its belly nearly touching the wall of the watchtower as it agilely angled its form up and up...

"Let's go!" I told Bryor in a hush, and then ran out to join a cluster of Whiterun guards, knowing that he would follow me, out of fear of being left by himself if nothing else.

The soldiers didn't notice or care that two more had joined their ranks; their eyes were on the skies as they shot arrows at the beast; all falling short of their target.

"Hold your fire!" Irileth's voice boomed from above; I craned my head around to catch a glimpse of the Dunmer standing atop the watchtower with her own bow raised, but not firing. "Save your arrows – it's out of range!"

But it wasn't for long. Bryor and I dove behind another pile of rubble that had toppled down from the tower at some point as the dragon turned on the crowd and uttered another ear-shattering screech. There were no words behind it, but the scream it uttered was entirely provocative, and I took it to mean that the dragon was still merely toying with us; like a cat, battering a trapped mouse to make it move so it could pounce on it again.

Bryor didn't cower or look to me for a plan this time; instead he adjusted his helmet as he turned onto his belly on the rubble, and drew his bow. He watched the skies; waiting.

"Tell me if it's going to breathe fire again, milady," his voice shook as he spoke, though his hand, and eyes, appeared as steady as anybody else's under the circumstances.

"I will," I promised, calling out over the dragon's incomprehensible vocalisations, and turned my eyes back to the tormenting wyrm, to see it rising up into the air again; its meaningless bellowing over. Bryor fired at the dragon's belly, and his arrow wasn't the only one let loose at the sight of the dragon's somewhat paler underside.

Several arrows hit it, but the dragon barely flinched, hissing out a somewhat amused, throaty; " _Mal nin! Hi nis golt daar gein._ "

 _Little sting! You cannot ground this one_ , the translation rumbled through me. I narrowed my eyes at the beast, a strange calm settling over me in the wake of these new words. It was _mocking_ us because it _was_ feeling the sting of the arrows fired at it. It was reassuring _itself_ that it would not be grounded. Which meant that was exactly what we had to do.

"Shoot as many arrows as you can at its arms – I mean wings," I told Bryor in a rush, dashing out from our cover to run to another guard. "If it can't fly, it _must_ land. Tell the others!" I told him.

"Yes milady!" his response was steady, floating after me on the hot, howling breeze.

I leapt over a strip of faltering flames, skidding to a halt beside another Whiterun soldier.

"We have to ground it – it's getting weaker!" I cried out to her.

She startled at my sudden appearance. "Who are you?!" she shrieked. "This is no place for civilians-!"

"I'm your new Thane!" I cut in. "I'll explain later – tell as many as you can to focus their arrows on the join between its body and wings!"

"But-!"

Before she could say any more, I ran again to the next nearest guard, who had noticed my approach with a confused cross to his brows. "Concentrate your fire on the dragon's wings!" I told him, glancing up to the sky, and spotting the dragon idly winding back around to us again, its head swivelling to pick out its next target.

" _YOL!_ " I saw the word form in the dragon's maw as it dove down toward us at a steep angle, very suddenly.

"Take cover!" I cried out, grabbing the guard's arm and hauling him down behind a fallen turret.

The flames of the shout burned the ground we had been standing on, bursting and writhing with flames and curls of smoke.

The sound of the dragon swooping over us shook everything, and its wake was like a hand, trying to push us out of our hiding place, and expose us to the terrible flames.

"It's stopped," I told the guard. "Quick, fire before it flies too high," I ordered him hurriedly.

The guard didn't need any further prompting, perhaps determining the same for himself. His mouth formed a thin line as he raised his bow, narrowed his eyes, and fired.

The battle raged on like this, for a time, and I found myself unable to keep still. I darted between rubble and in-tact sections of watchtower, telling all who would listen to focus their attack on its wings, then diving for cover the moment the dragon fancied to lunge at us again. It hurled insults and curses, growing angrier at each pass, which only served to satisfy me as I relayed our mounting success to whichever guard was nearest me at the time. If we were making it angry, we were on the path to winning.

After completing a full circuit of the yard below the watchtower, I crashed down behind the rubble I had left Bryor at, raising my own bow and keeping the dragon's body in my sights. I knew I would have no hope of hitting it, but I had to at least practise aiming and firing – at least _once_.

"It's working," I told him swiftly. "It's getting mad."

"And that's a _good_ thing?" was Bryor's aghast reply.

I smirked a sideways smile at him, nodding, then trained my eyes on the sky as a keening _Ag joor zaam; burn, mortal slaves,_ was uttered, punctuated with another guttural _YOL!_

"Down!" I told Bryor swiftly. We ducked down behind our shelter, only to grasp hold of one another as the ground _rolled_ beneath our feet, threatening to throw us into the air.

The flames being breathed by the dragon stopped crashing onto the earth, and I peeked around the rubble and through the lines of flames and haze of heat and smoke; and gasped. I could _see_ it, _on the dirt,_ using its back feet and wings to _crawl_ toward the nearest guard, its teeth snapping and gnashing furiously.

"It's down!" I told Bryor triumphantly, nudging him with my elbow but unable to take my eyes off the creature, or mask my glee at the small win.

"Rarghh!" was Bryor's reply.

I startled and immediately turned to the young soldier, wondering how he'd been hurt, but he wasn't. Bryor threw down his bow and retrieved his sword, leading a charge across the ground with his weapon raised, screaming a battle-cry toward the dragon.

I stood tall, horrified, watching as Whiterun guards from every direction did the same. The mass reached the dragon, leaping and hacking at the downed beast with their swords and axes. The blood drained from my face but I couldn't turn away, as through the flickering orange flames I saw men and women flung into the air and heard the cries and screams of humans and dragon alike. The tangy smell of blood was carried across the plains on the hot, smoky wind surging around me and I wavered, wondering if this was real, for all before me suddenly felt like some horrible nightmare that I might wake from if I just tried hard enough.

But it wasn't a dream; it was a brutal, fiery massacre. My eyes were burning and weeping from the smoke, glued to the scene before me. My back met something hard and unyielding very suddenly; solid stone – the outer wall of the watchtower, and I took it to mean that I had been stepping backwards, unconsciously.

Irileth's battle-cry as she leapt out of the tower with her sword raised to join the others captured my attention for a second. A screech of rage from the downed dragon drew my focus back to it; its head raised and throat bared as it roared incoherently. A volley of arrows struck the exposed neck and the dragon whipped its head down, grabbing the nearest guard in its teeth and shaking him like a rag-doll, before tossing the lifeless body aside with a flick of its neck.

It felt as though time slowed down. Through the flickering orange haze, I saw Irileth dodge the swiping, barbed tail of the creature, then evade the serpentine jaw full of teeth as she dived under its reaching head. She leapt, with alarming grace, up onto the dragon's neck and locked her ankles around it. I would have gaped at her fearlessness, had I not been struck frozen and horrified by the event already.

While the other guards continued to strike and hack at the body and what they could reach of its neck, Irileth aimed straight for the head, driving her sword up and into the dragon's skull.

"No!" I screamed on impulse; my hand covering my mouth in horror.

None heard me but the dragon, it seemed; it's glinting, beady eyes searching for me as its whole body shuddered from Irileth's blow.

" _Dovahkiin!_ " it cried, its shout imbued with pain, and _fear_.

My hand fell and I realised that I was moving – running forward. The arrow I had placed in my bow fell and clattered onto the hardened, burned earth, unused. The dragon's plea resounded within me, though I was not certain if it had cried the word out _to_ me, or _because_ of me, but perhaps the context didn't matter, for it had been a singular, piercing recognition; _dragonborn!_

I felt blank as I was propelled onwards by a force within me I couldn't name or control. I was enthralled by the dragon's final word, as it echoed around the cavern of my mind, accusing and distressed.

The Whiterun guards stepped back and Irileth leapt from the dragon's neck as the creature thrashed its death throes. They raised their bows, arrows aimed and steady, should the dragon determine to recover from such an blow. I ignored them; knowing in my heart that the dragon was already dead.

It fell to the ground with a _crash_ that shook everyone and everything around it, and when the dust and smoke settled, it twitched no more.

The sight of the now immobile creature halted me. I heaved air as a dreaded anticipation settled in my stomach, churning and bubbling in the sudden quiet. _Be happy,_ I schooled myself with an inward prod. _It is over, and you survived._

A cheer tore through the silence, issued by the Whiterun guards. I was vaguely aware of back slapping occurring and congratulatory words being uttered. I barely felt the hand on my back, or heard Bryor's words as he said something to the effect of 'we did it!'; I could not take my eyes from the lifeless dragon before me.

Something was _wrong_ about this, but I couldn't place what, exactly. My heartbeat was loud in my ears; the furious beating of a drum, as I watched and waited as a creeping itch under my skin intensified. I wasn't hypocrite enough to call the feeling remorse for killing the beast that had toyed with and brought down many before it had been ended. I had worked toward its death, just as we all had; it was on all of us, just as the victory would be when word got around.

The dragon _shimmered_.

I drew in a sharp breath, scrambling forward, uncaring of what it was I was falling over as I got back up and continued toward it. "It's not over!" I whispered urgently, but knew that I wouldn't be heard over the jubilant guards.

Cries of alarm began to overwhelm the cheers of success. The dragon's body burst spectacularly into flame. But no, it wasn't flame, I determined immediately. These curls were too white, and too golden; too ethereal and brilliant to be as heavy and cold as worldly fire.

The light spiralled and coalesced, its tendrils splaying and reaching out, and at once I found myself encircled by the buzzing, tenacious, _glorious_ brightness.

It was at the same time beautiful and terrible; a disharmonious chorus echoing between my ears, whispering along my armour and across my skin. Then it was in my veins, whirring around my skull and latching onto my _mind_ , if such a thing beyond grey brain matter was tangible and able to be clung to. I would have screamed, but I forgot how to.

I felt my feet touch the ground, and I opened my eyes, but wasn't able to recall being lifted, or closing my eyes, to begin with. My vision, blurred by the acrid smoke and tears of – what was this? Joy? Grief? – was lined in gold, and for a single, fleeting moment, I could have sworn that I saw the beating hearts of every man and woman stood before me, bright and warm and thudding their tiny, uneven rhythms.

I blinked, and the vision was gone.

A human was in my line of sight. I blinked again, and was able to place the man as the Whiterun guard, Bryor. He was offering me his arm, and speaking; or at least, his lips were moving. The words he said didn't reach my ears at once, and took longer for me to process.

I shook my head at him, not understanding, but reached out to him anyway. I startled, drawing my hand back when I saw the tiny, pale, fleshy appendages of a weak and wiry young woman.

Blinking again, this feeling, too, faded, and I fell forward as I tried to take a step toward the soldier.

Bryor caught me. "Whoa!" he grasped my arms, holding me upright and ducking down to meet my eyes. "Steady, Lady Dragonborn. You've..." he stopped, glancing from me uneasily, to something beyond me.

I turned to look over my shoulder; catching sight of a line of enormous, dried out bones.

"What happened?" I asked him; my mouth dry, my voice foreign to my ears.

I blinked and turned back to him. Irileth was standing beside Bryor now; her red eyes wide, but still somehow, judging me. "What do you think happened?" she muttered, but passed me a water skin at the same time.

I drank and drank. My thirst would never be quenched. The cool liquid settled in my system, grounding me. Awareness prickled at me; I could feel the eyes of every guard that had survived the ordeal on my form, and lowered the water skin, passing it back to its owner.

"I don't know," I told her, relieved that my voice seemed to have recovered, and that I sounded like myself again. "Tell me, please," I gave the housecarl an imploring look. "If you know what that was, do not keep it from me."

"You're Dragonborn," one of the guards to my right spoke up.

I glanced at her instead, taking in her awe-struck expression with a frown. "Yes," I nodded.

"No, but – you absorbed its soul," the same guard continued, stepping forward. She raked her helmet from her head, and bowed down to me on one knee, lowering her eyes.

I drew in a breath as, one by one, all the other guards did the same, until only Irileth and Bryor remained standing; the latter still supporting me. The young soldier hastily let go of me and dropped to his knee, when he realised he was the only guard who hadn't, but Irileth merely rolled her eyes and 'tsked'.

Frightened by their sudden reverence, when I had done nothing to aid in bringing down the beast myself, I squared Irileth. "Am I supposed to be able to do that?" I asked her.

She shrugged a shoulder, casting her eyes over her lowered fellows with an exasperated sigh. "Get up, all of you," she uttered. "She is not the Jarl."

"She is our saviour!" a voice from the mass cried out, heavily accented.

I winced. "I'm not, really. You took the dragon down for yourselves."

"You can use the thu'um, like the dragons!" another voice piped up, from the opposite direction.

I shook my head again, my eyes pleading with Irileth to bring an end to this exposing, mortifying display.

With a weary sigh that surprised me, Irileth stepped beside me and put her arm around my shoulders, turning me away from the crowd. "I don't know what _really_ happened to you, but the Jarl will want to -"

"No, don't go yet!" a guard cried out; the heavily accented one who had called me their _saviour_. I turned around under Irileth's arm, frowning, and located the man; his head was raised higher than the others and his brown beard bobbed as he spoke. "Give us a shout, Lady Dragonborn! Show us your power!" he encouraged.

A chorus of supportive cries rang out around the plain and into the night; nearest to me, Bryor's brown gaze shimmered with devotion.

"I..." I stammered, glancing away from his penetrating gaze and flushing. I did not deserve, let alone want, his devotion. I cast my eyes to the enormous outline of the dragon skeleton beyond the guards. Under their keen, shining eyes and display of fealty, I felt myself rooted to the spot. I had wanted them to believe me, so I could help them; and now they did.

 _I don't know how to shout_ , I wanted to tell them; but held my tongue as, intrinsically, I no longer felt that to be completely true.

Irileth's hand was on my shoulder again; a determined grasp, urging me away. "Celeste?" she asked me sharply.

I shrugged her off, turning back to the crowd. "I have to try," I muttered to her.

Irileth made a disgruntled sound, but I ignored her, closing my eyes and taking a deep, calming breath. And another. A third, to steady myself and push my conflicted, guilty, confused, terrified thoughts, all warring for dominance, from my mind.

The breaths eased the maelstrom within me, and in the silence I felt the presence of _FUS._ I smiled, filling my lungs with cool but smoky air as relief flooded me. Whatever else the dragon's light – or the soul, as the guard had called it – had done to me, it had expanded my range, far beyond the extent that my teachers at the Bard's college could ever have taught me, for the notes were beyond explanation or understanding, as though they were nestled in between all other known sounds.

" _FUS_!" I sang, my diaphragm pushing the air, sound, and _force_ from me in a whoosh that left me feeling wild and invigorated.

The guards were still on their knees before me, and then they weren't; toppling to the ground one by one. The sound of my shout faded as it escaped the confines of the watchtower yard, and continued on into the night.

There was silence, and I closed my mouth with a _snap_ , staring with wide eyes over the fallen soldiers. Disbelief flooded me; _did I do that?_

They stirred and began to pick themselves up. One of them laughed. Then another laughed, and two more, and before long they were all laughing and cheering, rushing forward to _congratulate_ me for a word that, once spoken, had felt more natural to me than my birth language.

I bore it shakily, plastering a smile on my face for their sakes, remembering the Jarl's desire that I bring them hope as I shuddered in the wake of what I had just achieved.

Underneath the shock, I was thrilled that the prospect of using Stormcloak's shout against him was within my grasp, and terrified at what being so close actually meant for my future.

I would _have_ to face him. Everything I had sworn, when I had known nothing, and felt too much, was real, now. There could be no more pleading my weak and feeble frame and inability to defend myself as a cause against facing oppressors, or delving into dark and dangerous places. None would believe me, or excuse me, if I refused to meet every challenge head-on.

As Irileth broke up the party and I felt my feet being resettled onto the ground (they had picked me up?), one realisation spoke louder and clearer within me than all others, breaking my heart.

 _I must now learn to fight._

The part of me that had promised never to do so was crushed, and from the recesses of my mind, Kodlak Whitemane's words flew to me, comforting me as it confirmed what I had determined, and in a way, framing my options.

" _What we desire and what we must achieve do not always align so easily, little dove._ "

I smiled sadly at the reminder, sighing shakily and nodding automatically when Bryor asked if he could have the honour of helping me back to Dragonsreach. My mind was still on my meeting with the Harbinger of the Companions, who had offered me sanctuary and teaching, despite my appearance, what felt like several months earlier. It had been a matter of days:

" _Should you change your mind about the lonely path set before you, a bed can be made available to you for more than a single night, and your shield-siblings would willingly teach you that which you feel you lack in physical strength, should you determine that it is time for you to acquire some._ "

I grimaced at the reminder; the thought of joining ranks with a bunch of mercenaries making a part of me cringe back into itself.

 _But I'm a bard!_

 _You're also the Dragonborn._

 _Can I not be both?_

During the walk back to Whiterun, which I was barely conscious of, I made myself consider my next move as logically as I could manage.

I could make for Solitude, and join the Legion. They would teach me to fight, and I would be cast into battle after battle, and either have to learn to fight or die at the hands of the Stormcloaks.

I shook my head at this idea, as Delphine's command to _stay alive_ burned through me accusingly.

 _Riverwood,_ my mind dashed to. I could retreat to Riverwood and have Faendal teach me to use a bow, as he had offered.

 _Better_ , I encouraged myself. _But why restrict yourself to the bow, when you have been offered teaching in many disciplines in Whiterun itself?_

I sighed at myself; Kodlak's pointed words had brought the idea of joining the Companions back to front and centre. Yes, I could remain in Whiterun and join the Companions. As the Jarl's Thane, it would be expected of me to remain here, for a time. And in that time, I could join the Companions, and have them teach me to become the fighter that Skyrim would now expect me to be.

I didn't like the idea of becoming a fighter; but I felt that I had little choice in the matter.

Cursing the dragons return, I let myself be led back to the safe serenity of Whiterun city. But the moment we entered the gates, a booming sound rent the air, cracking like thunder across the night sky;

" _Dovahkiin!_ "

The soldiers around me cried out. Bryor grasped hold of me and ducked from the sound, but I turned my eyes to the stars, searching for the source.

"What _was_ that?" I whispered. It hadn't sounded like a dragon, but the voices had spoken in the dragon tongue.

"It was the voice of the Gods," Bryor stammered, letting go of me as he cast his eyes to the sky fearfully.

I crossed my brows at him and shook my head. "It was human," I told him, more sternly than I had intended.

Irileth was beside me again, grasping my upper-arm in her firm grip. "We need to report back to the Jarl, _now,_ " she charged toward Dragonsreach, her clasp unyielding. "This is getting out of hand," she added in a mutter.

I twisted my arm until she released me, and walked beside her, matching her pace for myself. "It certainly is," I replied, pointedly glaring in her direction.

–

The Jarl was pacing the throne room, unable to sleep while awaiting word of the fate of the Western watchtower, I presumed.

He stopped and turned to face us silently as Irileth and I approached. Movement to the left and right of the Jarl caught my attention; it was Farengar, Adrianne's father and another man; hulking with a sandy-blonde beard, wearing well-worn, scaled armour and with slashes of fearsome red warpaint crossing his cheek and eyes.

They all rose and ventured forward to join the Jarl as we drew nearer the men.

Farengar was the first to speak; calling out to us as we passed the hearth.

"Did you hear it? The shout across the skies?" he called excitedly.

"How could we have not?" Irileth fired back. "It doubtless woke the entire bloody town. We're fine, by the way," she snapped to the mage.

Farengar waved his hand at the housecarl dismissively, huffing a laugh. "Never had any doubt _you_ would survive a dragon, oh formidable one."

"Enough!" Jarl Balgruuf snapped roughly, glaring between the pair as Irileth and I drew to a halt at the base of the stairs leading to his throne. "I am in no mood for your bickering! Irileth!" he commanded, his steely-blue eyes rounding on the Dunmer; "Report."

Irileth stood to attention and bowed, humourlessly delivering a summary of what had occurred at the watchtower; how the dragon had been dealt with, and what had occurred after. As she outlined what she had seen when I had absorbed the soul of the felled dragon, all eyes drifted to settle on me, but hers.

I stood tall, reminding myself that I was a _Thane_ , and could bare their scrutiny, though turned my eyes to Irileth, as she was the only person in the room with her eyes focused elsewhere. I watched her dispassionately relay my first shout to them.

She completed her report, and Jarl Balgruuf spoke up immediately. "Thane Passero. Do you have anything to add?"

I turned back to the Jarl, meeting his hard eyes with a small start, and opened my mouth automatically to speak. "Only...that which you already are aware," I raised my chin so I wouldn't stammer and took a breath as he waited. "We returned to Whiterun and as we set foot in the city, voices from above called out 'dovahkiin' to the night. It means 'dragonborn'," I explained, perhaps unnecessarily.

"It was the Greybeards," the Jarl murmured, his eyes more speculatively fixed on me now. He descended the stairs to stop on the last before me. "Leave us," he uttered to the others, without taking his eyes off me.

I was aware of the others somewhat reluctantly exiting the room, though knew that they would still be listening from their alcoves and side rooms to everything that passed between us.

I bore the Jarl's inspection, standing tall and ensuring I retained a respectful, open expression. I had nothing to hide; he knew all, and likely more than I did about what was happening. I would welcome his advice.

"They have noticed that you exist," he murmured, the corner of his mouth rising. "And summoned you for further training to High Hrothgar."

 _Greybeards?_ I cringed inwardly at his naming those who had called for me; for their _dovahkiin_. I knew little of the Greybeards; only that they lived in absolute seclusion at the Throat of the World. I was certain that presenting myself to them would be a cause for severe disappointment in the hermits.

"I journeyed the seven thousand steps, when I was about your age," he revealed, when I didn't speak. "To be summoned by them is...a great honour," Jarl Balgruuf smiled fondly clasping his hand to my shoulder. "You must go to them, at once."

I didn't want to go anywhere. I bit my bottom lip and played for time. "I am unequipped for such a journey, my Jarl," I tried, my words quieter than I had intended.

"You shall be provided with all you need to endure it. The housecarl I am to assign you in the morning will protect you."

I shook my head in a more pleading than refusing manner. "But I know so little of the world. I will be a source of vexation and failure, to them."

"On the contrary, Celeste;" his immediate counter, as his hand fell back to his side. "You are incapable of disappointing anybody with an open mind and heart. And, they will expect your questions, and teach you all that you need to know about being Dragonborn."

"But, this is happening too quickly," I gasped out, surprised to feel my eyes full of tears, very suddenly. I shook my head again, in an effort to dispel them. "Can I not have a year to myself, now that I know of my status, to train and prepare for everything that is supposed of me-?"

"You slayed one dragon tonight. By Irileth's account, upon sighting it you told her that there was more than one dragon in Skyrim," Jarl Balgruuf reminded me gravely. "Do you believe that _they_ will wait a year, for you to be _ready_ to face your destiny?"

I shook my head sadly; of course they would not, but I couldn't bare thinking on it. "I didn't slay the dragon," I reminded him. "I couldn't. I have no power, but for this -" I reached for a word, coming up frustratingly short - "adeptness for hearing what a dragon is saying."

"You have the thu'um," he added, his voice rumbling and reasonable. "And that aptitude is all the power a Dragonborn is expected to have."

I disagreed, but couldn't outright tell him this. "Please, my Jarl," I appealed, turning my eyes down. "I beg you, let me stay here in Whiterun, if not for a year, then a month, as your Thane. I will work with all who will teach me, so that I don't feel so hopelessly matched against these...terrifying odds, and these," I spluttered, " _colossal_ expectations."

"Celeste," Jarl Balgruuf's voice was patient, and his hand was on my chin, making me turn my eyes back up to his steely-blue ones. My vision shook as I beheld him, smiling patiently down at me, and I knew that I was on the verge of tears, yet again.

" _You_ expect too much of yourself," he schooled. "And I am your Jarl, not your keeper. I will not _order_ you to climb the seven thousand steps and present yourself to the Greybeards."

I bit my bottom lip, nodding as a sign that I understood.

He sighed, releasing my chin and looking above me, to the hearth beyond. "The monks of High Hrothgar exist in a state where time barely exists or passes to them. While their summons _must_ be answered, if your instincts tell you that you must first attain some other knowledge prior to venturing to them, then you must be guided by those instincts," he shrugged, but frowned.

I practically sobbed with relief, my eyes closing as I huffed a grateful, single laugh to the flagstones. "Thank you, my Jarl. I will work hard and endeavour to gain some strength within the close of a month," I swore to him.

I heard the Jarl sigh again, then he turned and retreated from me, stepping up to his throne. "You already have strength, little one. What you lack is confidence."

The disappointment in his tone, if that's what it was, made my cheeks hot and my heart sink. I bowed my head in farewell, sensing that a dismissal was nigh. "Then I shall endeavour to gain confidence within that time, also," I conceded quietly.

He sat, lounging in his throne, leaning on the arm rest and drawing the tail of his beard thoughtfully through his hand as his eyes flickered over me. "I believe you will. All right, to bed with you," he waved toward the exit, casting me a half-smile. "Return to me tomorrow morning, once you are refreshed from your...experience."

I thanked him, bidding him goodnight, and gratefully turned away.

But I didn't make for bed, or Breezehome, at once.

No, first I had to seek out Kodlak Whitemane and plead my case to him. I prayed that he was still amenable to the prospect of me joining their ranks. I had bought myself some time to gain some strength, though it wasn't much, and I had to make the most of it.


	20. Families

_Chapter 20: Families_

"I was hoping you would return to us, little dove."

I faltered, spying Kodlak Whiteman at the end of the hall, rising to his feet from the chair I had first sighted him in.

I couldn't make out his expression, but his tone was warm enough to give me hope that I _would_ be accepted, by him at least. I had entered the upper halls half expecting to be cast straight out again for my unwillingness to join them prior, but had found Jorrvaskr startlingly empty.

His arm shifted; he motioned toward the chair the surly Vilkas had occupied during our first meeting.

"Will you take a seat?" he offered.

I hastened forward, lowering my eyes to hide my relief; my gratitude. "Thank you, Master Whitemane."

He said no more, and only once I was seated did he take his chair; a nod to some bygone chivalry. "I am nobody's Master, Celeste," he reminded, strangely forlorn. "Call me Kodlak, or Harbinger, if you like."

I eased my bow and pack off, wondering at his melancholy. Was this a bad time? Perhaps he was tired. "Apologies for the lateness of my return, Harbinger," I began carefully, hoping he might take that I had always meant to come back. "Am I keeping you up?"

The old warrior allowed a weary smile as he shook his head; he chuckled to the flagstones. "Not at all. I am writing. It is what I fall back to, when I find it difficult to rest."

"I am sorry to hear you can't sleep. But it is no wonder," I posed.

His eyes met mine, full of cautious incredulity, and I faltered. The silvery gaze lingered, asking me a hard question I couldn't answer.

I continued hurriedly, to make myself clear. "It's difficult in dark times to relax, and we have dragons in the skies and civil war at our heels," I conversed, glancing around the hallway nervously, searching for a time to ask what I had to ask. "Where is everybody? I never imagined Jorrvaskr could be so silent."

Kodlak's manner relaxed; he sat tall and groaned as he arched his neck. "Vilkas and Farkas are on a job together. Skjor and Aela are hunting, I believe. Torvar and Vignar retired to the Bannered Mare an hour ago, and the rest are abed," he nodded toward the dormitory, smiling in an endearing, fatherly manner. "Now, tell me," he returned his knowing, silvery gaze to mine. "What is it that coaxed you back into our company?" he queried smoothly.

I had been preparing for small talk to ease him into the subject, but it appeared he wanted to proceed. Perhaps he _did_ want to retire soon. I should have been abed hours earlier too, but I had never felt more awake. I ducked; opened my mouth, but was uncertain of how to ask for his help.

"I've come from the Western watchtower," the words tumbled out before I realised where I was headed. "A dragon was killed, and I absorbed its soul."

"I see," Kodlak returned, peaceful and wholly unsurprised. He leaned back and he tilted his head thoughtfully, and I could have sworn he seemed _relieved_. "So it was you the Greybeards called for?"

I nodded, feeling oddly pleased by his calm acceptance. "Jarl Balgruuf said I should make for High Hrothgar at once. But..." I faltered. "I don't think I am ready to face them."

"And what will it take for you to believe yourself ready?" Kodlak asked as he gently closed his journal.

My eyes flickered to the book, wondering at a man of his age keeping a journal, then back to the Harbinger. "Strength," I swallowed and fidgeted. Shame flooded me; I must appear so meek, so afraid in his eyes. Thank the Gods none of the other Companions were here to witness my plea. "I am Dragonborn," I acknowledged quietly. "And dragons have returned to Skyrim. The Greybeards will expect a mighty dragon slayer, not a useless bard. I must learn to be a warrior, before I present myself to them."

Kodlak's brow wrinkled slightly, but whatever it was that worried him, he didn't voice it. "We can teach you to strike with steel," he spoke amiably. "But we cannot teach you to be strong."

I was unwilling to argue my point, for I felt it would send us in circles. "Will you accept me into your ranks, Harbinger? I would be more grateful than you can imagine for an opportunity to learn whatever I can be taught in the time that I have."

He smiled, and the knot in his brow was gone. "You wish to join the Companions?"

"I do," I sighed with relief, nodding for emphasis. "I mean to set out for High Hrothgar in a month. I don't expect I will be of much use on your contracts, but I was hoping you might accept a trade," I proposed hopefully. "My songs and stories each night, for arms training by day?"

"We will work something out," Kodlak neither agreed nor disagreed smoothly. "But Celeste, I need you to understand you are entering into an oath, before we drink on it."

I stilled. Had I missed something?

From the small shelf above his desk, Kodlak collected two pewter tankards in one hand, and a glass bottle of expensive mead in the other.

He offered me a mug and met my eyes. "Whether you venture to High Hrothgar in a month, or remain with us at your choosing, you may not join and leave the Companions when it suits you. Either you are a Companion, or you are not," he squared me. He tugged the diamond-like stopper from the bottle and tipped a few mouthfuls of glistening, syrupy liquid into my cup.

I accepted readily, embarrassed. "I won't use you and your people," I flushed, ashamed at how Kodlak had – perhaps unknowingly – exposed a nerve. "You are a family," I continued; stared into my mug and frowned at the dark liquid. "You protect one another," I added in quiet resolution.

The last time I had taken mead, albeit only a little, I had been sitting beside Ataf in the Winking Skeever, laughing over another of Jorn's elaborate tales. It had been the night before the High King had been murdered.

"You can never leave your family," the words felt mechanical to my ears and heart, and left me feeling empty. _But they can leave you._ Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. Perhaps I _should_ have been making for the seclusion of High Hrothgar at once, to apprentice myself to the monks.

 _Chink._

Kodlak's tankard met mine; a subtle accord. I glanced up to him in sadness, wondering if he somehow _knew_ how I had used my friend at the college so poorly, or how little love there was between my sister and I - the only family I had left. Just because I didn't _have_ a family didn't mean I couldn't understand the value of one.

He raised his mug in a toast. "Indeed we cannot leave them; for they will forever remain in our hearts and minds, for as long as we live and breathe."

I huffed, subdued, but raised the tankard and took a small sip. The mead was sweet and room temperature, like liquid light. It curled over my tongue and down my throat, reminding me, just a little, of the soul of the dragon.

 _Don't lose focus,_ I told myself sternly.

The drink was surprisingly strong; I cleared my throat to ease the burning after-effects and placed my mug on Kodlak's table. "I fear you and I could wax poetic on this topic until the sun rises, Harbinger. I understand what you are telling me."

"Yes, I believe we do understand each other," his eyes twinkled as he lowered his tankard. "I am pleased you changed your mind and came back to Jorrvaskr. I think we will all learn from one another, and that you will come to regard your shield-siblings as family over time, as they will you."

I was more uncertain. "Perhaps with a few exceptions," I voiced warily. I had not forgotten about Aela and Skjor; how unwelcome they had made me feel. I was relieved they weren't here now to argue against my arrangement, and was _not_ looking forward to their reactions when they learned I had joined the Companions.

"I will talk to them," he seemed to understand, and leaned back in his seat comfortably.

I smiled my gratitude. "Vilkas said you might, last time."

"Yes. I must not give up on them," Kodlak mused in an undertone, then fell silent.

I rose; there was nothing else to say. I lowered my eyes to the - _my_ Harbinger. "Thank you - for understanding. I hope we can...talk more during my time here. I'll return in the morning, after an appointment with the Jarl."

When I raised my eyes, Kodlak's bore a trace of regret. He blinked and the hint was gone.

"Good night, Celeste. You will not stay in the dormitory?"

I shook my head. "I don't want to disturb the others. And my friend, Lydia, will be worried about me."

I had no intention of residing in Jorrvaskr, tonight or any other night, but I didn't want to offend Kodlak. I would make my bed in Breezehome, even if my arrangement with the Companions occupied most of my waking hours; this I had already decided.

And besides, right now, I felt too alert to rest.

"Ah. Yes, we must not disappoint our friends. Until tomorrow, then," he bade me farewell, his tone flat and impossible to decipher.

He turned to face the table, and I caught the sound of pages turning, then a pen scratching paper. "And Celeste?" he added, over his shoulder.

I faced him, but he did not turn back to face me. I could even still hear his pen writing in his journal as he spoke.

"While as citizens of Whiterun, the Circle and I have accepted the Jarl's position of neutrality," he warned, "you might consider changing your colours before you return. Several of your shield-siblings are...not so impartial."

"Oh," my eyes widened as I glanced down to my Legion armour. "It's just – this is the only armour I have," I stammered. Kodlak sighed, and I righted myself, nodding even though he couldn't see it. "I will find something less conspicuous, Harbinger."

"I'm sorry to ask," his words were another sigh in themselves, and he turned back now, to catch my eye. "I would not want you to be confronted by them on your first day over such a trifle."

With a short, apologetic smile, he turned away to write some more.

I left him to his writing, and the Companions to their rest. Stepping out into the freezing, clear night, I held my arms against the chill. All was silent but for the rhythmic hoot of a far-off owl and the howl of a stiff breeze carrying snowflakes over Whiterun's fortifications. The resident Talos worshipper was nowhere to be seen.

My eyes travelled up. Masser was about to set; Secunda already dipped below the horizon. An aurora swirled lazily in hues of pink and green, giving the Gildergreen new life as it coalesced over its bleached boughs, making them vivid.

I smiled, shaking my head as the incredulity of the last few hours spilled over me. _Thane of Whiterun, confirmed Dragonborn, and joined the Companions,_ I mused. It was slightly ridiculous when I put it like that.

I sat on the bench seat where I had met Lucia, suddenly reluctant to make directly for Breezehome. Lydia would doubtless be asleep anyway.

I felt oddly contented. But why wouldn't I, I reasoned? I had survived, and actually gotten my way. And now, at the end of the month, I would be approaching the Greybeards with at least a _little_ skill in defending myself.

Lifting my boots up onto the seat and tucking my coat over my legs, I rest my chin on my knees and lingered, watching the colours twist and swim above me across a velvet sky sprinkled with glittering stars. I was alone; the only person in Whiterun, perhaps all of Skyrim, witnessing the display.

I sighed, and was surprised to feel a longing ache on the exhale. A desire to watch the night's sky _with_ somebody overwhelmed me; contentedness shifted seamlessly into loneliness. The skies were so vast; I was so small, and I shuddered, hugging my coat around my legs and closing my eyes as I nestled my face into my coat.

"Hadvar," his name left me in a whisper.

Was it possible that Hadvar was awake at his garrison in the Pale, surrounded by snow and unable to sleep as well? Possible that he was staring up at the same sky, wondering about me?

 _Highly unlikely,_ I mocked, rolling my eyes at such romanticism. _I hope he is not. I hope he is abed, warm and contented, and safe._

Remembering Hadvar reminded me of his letter, which reminded me that I needed to reply to him, and soon. I had been the one to suggest we write to one another, and he had mentioned how he longed to hear of Riverwood and the world outside the war.

Pleased to have found something to occupy my meandering thoughts with, I searched through my pack. I was sure I'd picked up a journal or two during the Bleak Falls Barrow expedition. I could use some of the blank pages within to, at the very least, _draft_ my reply.

I cheered quietly when I located what I was searching for; withdrew the pencil from the spine swiftly and flipped pages until I found a blank one, dismissing the ramblings of the journal's original owner.

Poised to write, I blanked and stared at the emptiness. The cool breeze fluttered the open pages and they whispered against one another.

 _Where do I begin? The address to the Jarl? Bleak Falls Barrow? Or..._

I paled, realising that I would need to tell him, before word arrived by any other means, that I was Dragonborn.

There wasn't any way – or really, any reason – to hide it from him. So many had witnessed what had happened at the Western watchtower that it would not be secret for very long.

 _What will he make of this?_

 _There is no way to tell_ , I scolded. _Just tell him._

I made myself write.

 _Dear Hadvar,_ I scrawled.

 _So much has happened since we parted. You wrote that you wished to hear of home, so perhaps I should start with news from Riverwood..._

The aurora lit up my handiwork as I wrote and wrote, committing my thoughts as they rose. I could not tell him everything, for it would take me as long to write as it had to experience the events to give him a detailed account.

The tale poured out of me; days past edited into pages of exposition, summarising the people I had met and worked with, his family's contract with Warmaiden's, the Thane business, and discovering that I was Dragonborn. I confessed I had no idea of the expectations surrounding such a role, but I hoped to gain some physical strength with the Companions in the coming month, in preparation for the journey to High Hrothgar.

I sat back and stretched. My eyes felt scratchy, and I shook my head in disbelief at all I had detailed. Perhaps he would believe me? Maybe he'd think I had gone mad? Whatever his reaction, accounts of what had occurred at the Western watchtower would spread soon enough, and then he might make up his own mind.

With the events outlined, my writing grew more legible as I continued, asking him how he was, and how the war progressed. I truly wasn't certain what I _could_ write him that wouldn't violating some Imperial order, or expose my bereft feelings.

I glanced up to the heavens and blearily blinked at a sky turned mauve; the aurora had faded, and dawn was nigh. Whiterun would wake soon.

But now I had begun writing to Hadvar I wanted to finish.

 _Thank you for speaking to the General. Financially, my friends, including your generous family, have been meeting my needs. I'll be forever in their debt for their remarkable kindness. I am also performing, to earn my keep with the Companions, and I plan to sell the bits and pieces I've collected over the past few days to bolster my funds._

 _I cannot imagine why the Legion have frozen my accounts, but am in no position to return to Solitude and settle the matter. It mustn't be imperative that I do so, or I would have received a summons from the General myself._

 _Whiterun has been a surprise. I've been moving through it, observing it constantly, and can appreciate it for its beauty. I am writing in a calm, cool pre-dawn from a bench seat, bundled up beside a grand, stark white tree I have heard the Priestesses of Kynareth call the 'Gildergreen'. I could retire to Breezehome, where Lydia has assured me I will always have a bed, or to the Companions dormitory, where I have a second, but I want to finish your letter, and after all that has occurred, I am grateful for the moment of peaceful reflection._

I stalled. The letter was certainly long enough, but I found myself writing again.

 _Despite everything, I am contented for what I do have. All I lack is your presence; to share this serenity, to watch the sun rise over the faraway mountains. It is due at any moment. The sky shifted through indigo to mauve while I wrote, and is now blushing pink with only the brightest stars still stubbornly scattered high above._

My lips curled in amusement as I imagined Hadvar reading this and laughing at me. I was dragging the letter out, as though by continuing I could somehow will him here. He had more important things to do with his time than read my description of the _sky_. I signed off:

 _Write again when you are able to, and be safe._

 _Celeste_

I tucked the pencil back into the spine and tore out the finished papers, folding them at once. If I re-read it, I would throw it away and vow to write again more coherently; a cycle which would ensure no reply was ever sent.

Tucking the letter into my coat pocket, I sat back and watched the sun rise before I shouldered my belongings and made my way to Breezehome along eerily empty streets which, I assured myself, would not be empty for long.

–

There was something comforting about stepping into Breezehome. Quietly closing and relocking the door behind me, I shed my burdens and warmed my hands over the still-glowing embers of the hearth.

I didn't want to wake Lydia or Lucia, but I also didn't want to creep about the house unannounced, so I decided to make myself useful until they naturally awoke. I put some wood onto the fire and prodded it until the logs caught alight, then set about making breakfast.

I smiled as I found everything I needed, neatly positioned on the side benches. The little cottage had changed much in the past days. When I had left, it had been empty and dusty, but now? The cupboards were stocked and tables and benches were pressed against the walls, making the most of the cosy space.

I collected some eggs, herbs, salt, bread and tomatoes, and got to work. It wasn't long before quiet footsteps descended the stairs.

"Good morning," I whispered to Lydia. She peered around the staircase with a crease in her brow - before she spotted me and her eyes lit up.

"You're back!" she hurried forward. She was wearing a knee-length tunic and her legs and feet were bare; her black hair flew unkempt around her face, and she held a sword in her right hand.

My eyes flickered to the weapon and I arched an eyebrow. "You slept with your sword?"

"Huh?" Lydia looked down as though wondering how it had gotten there. "Oh," she placed it on the nearest table. "No, I heard something down here, and assumed we were being robbed."

My eyes widened - I had been _very_ stupid letting myself into _her_ home, given the hour and that I had not been expected.

Lydia burst out laughing and tried to muffle the sound with her hand.

I turned back to stir the scrambled eggs. "Sorry about that," I flushed. "Wasn't thinking."

"Don't worry about it," recovered, she waved her hand in nonchalance and joined me, leaning over the pot. "That looks _great_. I dare say the smell will rouse Lucia soon."

"How is she?" I mused, scraping at the base of the pot and turning the yellow mass.

"She's adjusting," her arm landed over my shoulder, and she jostled me affectionately. "And she will be relieved to see you are safe. As I am."

I smiled up at her. "I am glad to be back," I admitted.

"Can I help?" she stepped back.

I shook my head with a small smile; breakfast was truly the least I could do. "It's nearly ready. Take a seat."

Instead, she retrieved a kettle. "So, tell me everything?" she began conversationally.

Overwhelmed by the task ahead, my eyes widened. "Where do I begin?" I sighed.

"The Barrow?" she set the kettle over the hearth; her green gaze met mine in confusion.

The eggs were done, so I took them off. I smirked, pleased that I'd written to Hadvar, for it had helped me organise my thoughts and somewhat separate myself from all that had occurred. "All right," I adopted the role of bard, slipping into the drama as though it was a favourite tunic. "What would you say if I told you that the Barrow was perhaps the _least_ exciting part of my story?"

Lydia's eyes swerved back to me, vaguely astonished. "I never thought anybody could describe Bleak Falls Barrow as _exciting_ ," she intoned carefully. "Least of all you, Celeste. What has happened?" the last was delivered warily.

"Hindsight," I acknowledged. I divided the eggs onto three plates; the bread had already been sliced and laid. "Should we wake Lucia so her eggs don't go cold?"

"Perhaps we should speak first," Lydia hazarded, then moved to the table and motioned for me to sit.

"It's probably for the best, I wouldn't want to startle her," I grinned, obscurely enjoying stringing Lydia along. I sat and lifted my fork, and tapped it against my lip as I considered aloud. "Where to begin..."

I sat up a little taller; a little brighter. "Oh, this will interest you. Jarl Balgruuf has made me Thane of Whiterun."

"He _what_?" she baulked.

"Shh!" I laughed, waving to coax her to sit. "You will wake Lucia."

She sat, and whispered furiously, "When did _this_ happen?"

"Last night," I let out another long, overwhelmed sigh. "Right before a dragon attacked the Western watchtower."

" _A what_?"

"Don't worry - I took care of it," I speared a bit of egg.

" _Celeste Passero_!" Lydia hissed, doing her best not to yell. " _What_ are you _talking_ about?"

"Sorry," I tried to withhold my amusement and failed, and lowered my tone as my chest shook and eyes watered. "I'll tell you, I promise," I sat straighter to direct the cheekiness into my storytelling instead. "Let me begin with Bleak Falls Barrow."

–

I had just finished telling Lydia about Bleak Falls Barrow and the word wall when Lucia joined us, roused by the smell of breakfast after all; a welcome intermission. Once she had settled between Lydia and I with a plate of eggs, toasted bread, roasted tomato and a cup of milk, Lydia asked that I go on in a more cautious tone.

I reasoned it was her way of warning me not to say anything that might scare her soon-to-be daughter, so I settled on telling them the part where Jarl Balgruuf had made me his Thane the night before.

"Oh, _Samuel_ ," Lydia whispered as she closed her eyes.

"Lydia?" I frowned.

A sad smile graced her lips, and she looked up to explain. "The Jarl wanted your father to be Thane of Whiterun."

"The Jarl told me so when I first met him," I affirmed, trying to exude unaffectedness and reminding myself that despite her emotion, there was nothing between them - not that it exactly mattered now, and besides, I liked and trusted Lydia. "Do you think _that_ is why he asked me?"

Her smile brightened as she shook her head. "Of course not. That is not Jarl Balgruuf's way. He would never appoint an unworthy Thane, no matter who her father was."

A kind of relief swept over me; for all the Jarl's talk of perceived _greatness_ , I had reasoned the title down to my father's memory and being suspected Dragonborn.

"He has asked me to return to him at eight, to be assigned a housecarl and fitted for some armour-"

Lydia spluttered her tea, startling both myself and Lucia.

"Are you all right?" Lucia asked worriedly as she pat Lydia cautiously on the back.

Lydia nodded, coughing as she darted out of her seat. "I have to go!" she raced for the stairs.

"Where?" I called with an uncertain half-laugh.

She called out over her thundering footfalls; "Where do you think?"

Lucia and I looked to one another - as though the other might answer for her comedic haste. When neither of us could account for it, and the only sound was Lydia crashing and bashing around upstairs, I nodded to the little girl's food.

"All right, eat up. If Lydia's too busy to hear the rest, I'll just have to tell _you_ about the dragon-"

" _Dragon_?" Lucia whispered, paling as he eyes widened.

I glanced away, worried I had scared her. "Though - perhaps we _should_ wait for your – for Lydia," I corrected, just in time.

"You saw a dragon?" Lucia persisted; her small hand fell to my arm urgently.

I checked her swiftly; I'd mistaken excitement for fear - her eyes shone with anticipation.

Feeling easier, I nodded and smiled secretively. "Two, actually."

"You have not!" she giggled, releasing my arm. "Now you're making fun of me."

"I'm not, as mad as it sounds," I countered with a laugh of my own. "I was in Helgen when the dragon attacked there, and I was at the Western watchtower last night, when another arrived."

She cast me an askew glance, as though she wanted to believe me, but was still expecting some sort of trick. "And...you're Dragonborn?" she asked uncertainly.

"It seems so."

"Did you...slay the dragon?" she asked cautiously.

"No," I sighed, sitting back in my seat. "I am not a dragon slayer. I can't even _lift_ a greatsword," I met her wide-eyed gaze with a wry smile. "I'm possibly the most _useless_ Dragonborn in the history of Tamriel."

Lucia giggled again, and I marvelled at the change in the quiet, meek little girl. I was so pleased that she and Lydia were doing so well together.

"You're not useless," she posed after she had stopped laughing. "You're kind and brave, and you saved me," she added reasonably, turning back to her breakfast and scooping up the last morsel of her egg on her fork carefully. "Maybe you're the kind of Dragonborn that people need right now?"

The ease in which she said it made me flush, and before I had figured out how to reply, we were interrupted by a clatter of boots.

Lydia glanced around wildly, then her eyes widened in victory. She leapt at a side table, grabbing hold of her sword and sheathing it hurriedly.

"Lydia, what's going on?" I asked with a laugh, still somewhat unnerved. "Finish your breakfast. We can go up to Dragonsreach together."

She glanced toward me and shook her head, her mouth set in a straight line. "I will see you up there. He is _not_ going to assign you Hrongar, or any of those other ice-for-brains on my watch."

I frowned, wondering if she meant what I _thought_ she did? I watched on as she rushed over and planted a small kiss on the top of Lucia's head, then smoothed down the girl's hair as she leaned up. "I'll be back for lunch. If you need anything-"

"I know where to find you," Lucia finished musically, casting an easy smile over her shoulder.

"Right," Lydia nodded to her, then to me, and her expression hardened. "And I'll see you at eight," she added with a fierce determination.

–

After Lucia had finished breakfast, we tidied up, then insisted on helping me carry my belongings to the room she and Lydia had set aside for me to call my own. The little girl dragged me up the stairs and spoke proudly of how they had readied it with 'everything I could ever need'.

It was a small, cosy bedroom with a snug single bed dressed in green against a wall that rose at an angle toward the centre; following the roof, I supposed. At the bed's end was a wooden chest; a low dresser pressed against another wall, and behind me stood a stout, empty book case. A simple, thick rug lay across the middle of the polished wooden floor. Warmth rushed through my heart while I took it in. Despite being an orphan with no access to my money, it seemed I had found a home. Perhaps I _belonged_ in Whiterun.

Lucia left me to inspect my room, merrily advising me that she had promised to help Mila and her mama look after their stall.

After watching her go, I stepped into the room - _my_ room - and started to unpack with renewed energy. Breakfast and pleasant company had revitalised me, and as I withdrew each item and laid it on the floor, to sort properly, I wondered if the dragon's soul had done something to me, to make me feel so tireless.

In part, the thought terrified me, so I pushed it aside and frowned at my modest haul. There were a handful of gemstones which I could sell to pay Lydia back her loan and keep me comfortable for a few weeks. I still had one of the daggers Faendal had passed me, and the shorter bow. I bit my lip as I considered selling it, then decided to set it aside, in case Faendal wanted it back some day.

I carefully separated out the three fine, silver pendants from the haul that were Alvor's, and took a moment to admire their beauty. I ran my hands over the round stone set into the centre of one. The pale, perfectly-smooth creamy-coloured pebble had been set into the very centre of the piece. The other pendant was of a similar design, though contained a darker brown river rock, also smoothed and perfectly round. The third necklace was entirely silver and flattened like a coin, and the face had been etched with tiny, beautiful swirls that reminded me of waves rolling onto the shore. There was something altogether wistful and yearning about all three pieces. I placed each carefully atop the empty bookshelf.

I would find a buyer for them; someone who would pay what they were worth and appreciate them. And, if I found myself with money to spare, or was able to convince the General to release my account, I would buy them myself, as a memento of my time with Hadvar's family.

Apart from a few empty potion bottles, the rest of my loot consisted of some old, tarnished jewellery and a few books. I pawed over the titles as I stacked them on the shelf, huffing when I realised I still had the spell tome in my possession. I really had to get around to selling it, as it would be of no use to me. I flung it into my pack when I remembered that the town alchemist had said Farengar might buy it.

With my small collection of books organised, I split the rest into what I would sell straight away and what I would keep to sell later if required. I tugged open the dresser to stow the latter.

It was stocked full of fresh, clean clothing.

I frowned, wondering if by some strange error, Lucia had shown me to Lydia's room.

I picked up one of the garments; a light grey dress. Holding it at arms length, my frown deepened. It was too small for Lydia, and much too large for Lucia. The realisation pounced, and I lowered my arms with a sigh. These were for _me_.

" _Lydia_ ," I scolded the wall, exasperated.

I replaced the grey dress carefully, opening the bottom drawer instead. In here were a pair of shoes, a pair of boots, again too small for Lydia and too large for Lucia.

Shaking my head at the woman – I _would_ pay her for these – I stowed my loot next to the footwear, and then bundled the to-sell pile back into my pack.

Next, I undressed. I would heed Kodlak's warning against riling up the Stormcloak supporters amongst them. I clothed myself in what I hoped were suitable training garments; thick leggings, a long-sleeved, light-blue tunic, and a deep brown vest. I kept the Legion sword belt, arm bracers and boots, as they were now well and truly worn in and simple enough on their own that they would not be recognised without the cuirass and kilt of the Imperial army.

 _You're addressing the Jarl first_ , I reminded myself with a curse. The clothing was too common for court.

 _The clothing is too common for court in Solitude,_ I insisted as I untucked my necklace and peered down, ensuring father's ring was front and centre. _Whiterun is different._

On impulse, I grabbed one of Alvor's necklaces; the one with the beautiful creamy stone in its centre, and fastened it around my neck. _Better_. I adjusted the vest, tightening the laces down the front as though it were a corset. I could loosen it after my audience.

Last, I worked on detangling my hair and tried to remember which hair styles, from my lessons at college, gave the impression of reliability and patriotism.

Then I laughed at myself. Neither the Jarl, nor the Companions, would care how I wore my hair. I was not appearing before them as a bard, but a Thane and colleague. I simply needed to try and be myself.

I braided it, as that was how I preferred to wear it, but loosely so it wouldn't pull, then grabbed my pack and bow, coat and scarf, and left Breezehome. I stopped on the doorstep to put on my coat and scarf, and glanced up to face a bright blue sky. I took in a breath of air; cool with a trace of smoke, probably from Adrianne's, next door. The smell reminded me of Alvor's forge and I smiled as I remembered that Hadvar's family would be visiting Adrianne; today, maybe tomorrow. I was looking forward to seeing them again.

Hadvar's letter was still in my coat pocket, and with some time to spare, I saw to it first.

With a spring to my step, I made enquiries to the nearest Whiterun guard about a courier. The guard eyed me speculatively, for he wasn't wearing a helmet, but it wasn't until he addressed me as Lady Dragonborn that I realised he wasn't trying to determine if there was a bounty on my head or not.

He told me letters arrived with and were sent by the morning coach, which was preparing to leave beside the stables. I made myself keep smiling as I thanked him.

As I exited Whiterun, I was greeted by other guards; calls of hullos and hails to – there was that name again, _Lady Dragonborn._

I bore it with return waves and greetings while my cheeks flamed and my heart thudded. Each salutation made me wonder if I should keep walking, all the way to High Hrothgar. Whether I felt I was ready or not, these people – and once word spread, _all_ people – would be relying on me to stop the dragons.

I warred with my guilt, reasoning that I was no good to them dead, and surely there wasn't _that_ many dragons in Skyrim right now that required - whatever I was supposed to do - immediately. Was there?

The stiff breeze buffeted my coat, flapping it against my legs, and I searched for the coach, still half-absorbed in my thoughts.

" _We are our own women now, Celeste."_

My heart flopped as my sister's words snaked through me; the coolness to her tone was like a spear of ice.

 _That we are_ , I replied silently. Should I write _her_ a letter some time; ask how she was faring? I didn't bother pretending that she wondered about _my_ fate.

Giselle's words reminded me that despite all else, I _was_ master of my own destiny, and, as the Jarl had told me the night before, I had to follow my instincts. Being accepted into the Companions was a shining beacon, which assured me I had chosen the correct path.

After making some small talk with the coachman, I passed him my letter and some gold, and then made my way back up to Dragonsreach. How long would my letter take to reach him? What would he make of my news?

And how long, I wondered with a sigh, until I would hear from him again?

–

The morning passed quickly once I arrived at Dragonsreach. There was no ceremony to attend to, as I had already accepted the role. Lydia stood by the Jarl on his throne, smiling as I approached.

I grinned at her; clearly she had been successful in her petition.

She was made my housecarl; a role which I knew would be ornamental between us, for I would never forget that I was a guest in _her_ house and owed her a significant portion of what would be perceived as my success.

I was then taken, with Lydia shadowing my every step, to be measured for armour. It was quite similar to being fitted for a new dress; I stood straight and still on a small stool while a man held a piece of string with knots in it against my arms, legs, shoulders – everywhere – then noted down digits on a nearby piece of parchment. I was asked for material and colour preferences, and Lydia gratefully stepped forward, questioning the man and prompting me subtly, in a way that enabled me to answer with some understanding of what I was saying.

I was eager for the measuring session to be over, for I wanted to go to Jorrvaskr and begin my training. As he measured more and took even more notes, I wondered who the Jarl might commission to make it. Adrianne? Or this Eorlund Grey-Mane that I had heard so much about? Or perhaps he would ask neither, and send my measurements away to a smith elsewhere to fulfil.

Finally, it was over. Lydia and I departed Dragonsreach. The sun shone high in the sky, and the moment we stepped into the light I reached up and hugged her tightly; excited.

She laughed, somewhat startled, and I pulled back to grin at her, running off and waving over my shoulder. "I'll see you at home, later!" I called behind me.

"Whatever you wish, _my Thane_!" she called back, filled with cheer and amusement.

I laughed, relieved that the official duties were over for the day, and kept running. I bound down the last few stairs, skirted around the rambling Talos worshipper, and leapt up the stairs to Jorrvaskr.

I skidded to a halt when I saw who was stood before the doors; arms crossed and glaring at me.

"You're late," Aela snipped; her shining eyes as hard and accusing as I remembered.

I pointed to Dragonsreach as a weak excuse. "I had business-"

" _We_ have business," Aela cut over me, uncrossing her arms and motioning for me to follow. "I expect you to be here at sunup tomorrow to make up for today's delay, whelp," she walked not into Jorrvaskr, but around it.

I stepped into her shadow, lowering my eyes as panic set in. Why would Kodlak have assigned _Aela_ to be my first teacher?

Aela led me silently to a training yard behind the mead hall. Several dummies were tied to stakes hammered into the earth against the far wall, and a series of archery targets were propped either side of them. A hard-packed, dusty sort of courtyard stood between those and an open verandah, on which several tables, chairs and bottles of mead were strewn about. It was empty of people.

 _She's going to kill me_ ; I glanced to her fearfully.

"Where's everybody else?" I asked, trying to swallow my dread. _She's not going to kill you. Grow up._

"Working," Aela's short reply carried accusation, as though she felt it was where she, and I, should also be. "All right. Show me what you've got."

It took me a moment to realise that she meant for me to draw my bow. I unloaded my pack and drew the longbow from my shoulder, biting my bottom lip as I realised; "I don't have any arrows..."

I flushed as Aela 'tsked' and strode to one of the targets and retrieved a couple of arrows with a sharp tug.

I half expected her to throw them at me, but the Companion held out her hand instead. "Take them," she ordered, when I didn't straight away.

"Sorry," I muttered, fumbling with the arrows and searching for somewhere to put them. There was nowhere; I placed them all on the ground beside my feet, save for one which I kept to seat in my bow.

I hazarded as many glances as I could bare to the fearsome, flame-haired warrior-woman as I adjusted my stance as Faendal had shown me, and placed the arrow. She watched me like a hawk, her eyes predatory and impatient, but she said nothing.

Had Kodlak spoken to her? Clearly yes, otherwise she wouldn't be here at all.

With an exhale, I raised the bow and looked down the arrow, trying to keep the centre of a target in my sights. I prayed to the Divines that I had gained muscle enough in the past few days, somehow, so that I might be able to extend it properly. I inhaled, and drew back the bowstring.

The further back I drew, the more my arm shook, and eventually I had to stop short. I closed my eyes in an attempt to locate some hidden reserve, but I could draw it no further, and it was not enough. There was no _way_ this would be enough.

"Get on with it," was her reply. "You have wasted enough of my time already."

Opening my eyes, I exhaled and released. It flopped out of the bow, skidded across the ground and stopped about an inch short of the base of the target.

I turned hurriedly to Aela, unwilling to await her wrath.

"I have no strength," I admitted dolefully.

Aela looked as though she might pounce on and tear me to shreds, then her eyes flickered away, to the target. "You are weak. Weaker than most children half your age."

I nodded, for I knew it was true. "That's why I'm here," I told her quietly.

"What was that, whelp?" she barked.

"That is why I am here," I repeated louder, stooping down to grab another arrow. I placed it, flashing her another glance. "I need your help," I managed through a clenched jaw; to Kodlak I could plea, but the idea of begging and scraping to this disagreeable woman sickened me.

There was only more silence from Aela, and I used the time to reposition my feet. I stared at the target as I raised the bow with another shaky exhale.

"Your feet are too far apart," Aela snapped.

I startled; I had been about to draw; and the arrow fell out of my bow with a clatter. I turned to her, confused, but expectant.

She uncrossed her arms, stepped closer and nodded to the ground. "Your feet. It's the stance for a man twice your size. No wonder you're unstable," she made her point by prodding the back of my knee with the toes of her boot.

I stumbled as my leg gave way, and flushed as I quickly righted myself. "Faendal told me to stand this way-"

"And I'm telling you to stand like this," Aela cut in again, grabbing my bow to demonstrate. Strips of armour strained around arms and legs and a torso that was pure muscle as she stood, drew, and then glanced at me. "Are you paying attention?"

I nodded silently, mirroring the warrior's pose and checking my feet against hers.

She handed me back my bow. "Now, fire."

I placed the arrow hastily; exhaled, raised, inhaled, drew back.

Somehow it seemed my arm had doubled its strength, and I laughed when the bow extended completely.

"Remember your breathing!"

"Oh, right!" I replied gleefully; Aela's rough command was not enough to topple my mirth. I inhaled again, stared down the shaft, and aimed at the target.

And I fired. The arrow flew over the wall and out of Whiterun. I laughed as I watched it soar; triumphant.

"Again," Aela ordered, cutting over my elation. "Elbows steady when you loose."

I grabbed for another arrow, heartened that I had overcome my primary obstacle; being able to actually _draw_ a bowstring all the way back.

"Why are you so excited?" she asked me in frustration. "You can barely draw the lightest bow I have ever held, your aim is terrible, and you wouldn't last three seconds against a moving target."

I ignored her and repositioned my feet. _I can do this,_ I encouraged; no such words would come from my teacher. _I must do this._

I inhaled, aimed, exhaled, and fired again.

* * *

 _A/n: thanks so much for the reviews! I hope this chapter isn't too boring - there was a bit of housekeeping that had to be completed before she could sink her teeth into her training._


	21. To Appease and Appeal

_Chapter 21: To Appease and Appeal_

Under Aela's militant direction, it wasn't long before the elation of being able to actually fire a bow wore off, and the aches and pains of standing outside, exposed to the elements and firing continually into the same target took hold.

By evening, my knees shook and my arms felt as though they were burning; each time I drew the bow string back, the heat pooling around my joints intensified. My hands and cheeks were chapped from exposure and my knuckles throbbed, swollen and starting to blister. My stomach ached with hunger and my mind with fatigue; given the lateness of my arrival to Jorrvaskr, there had been no time to stop, or to eat.

I continued to fire, determined to bear the pain. If I even faltered, Aela would pounce, of that I was certain. She would report my failure to Kodlak, and I didn't want to disappoint _him_.

As for my teacher; my thoughts were divided. A part of me petulantly insisted that I not give a damn what she thought of me, but another more striving part of me laboured under a delusion that I might eventually win her approval. I fell into mechanical routine; firing my bow and enduring her attitude in silence.

"That's enough for today."

Aela's order startled me, though I tried not to show it. I lowered my bow and gave my attention to her. My breaths came and went, heavy and strained. I hadn't realised that standing and shooting a bow all afternoon would leave me breathless, but here I was, gasping for air.

She pushed off the verandah support post she'd been leaning against and moved toward me, shaking her head. "You will return at dawn and continue firing on that target," she spoke loudly and clearly, as though to a child, pointing to the target I had been trying to punish all afternoon. Only a few of my arrows had ever thudded into the side of it.

"All right," I agreed quietly, inwardly wincing at my protesting, weary frame. I would stop by the potion shop and buy something to help, I promised. "Shall I go now?" I turned back to Aela.

"You entered into an agreement with Kodlak. Not me," she snapped, her shimmery eyes, hinted with green and gold, rounded on me. "I don't care how you spend your evenings, as long as you stay out of my way."

"Then why are you teaching me, if you can't stand the sight of me?" I sighed, growing more frustrated as I recovered my breaths. I was tired, hungry, and had been suffering her abhorrence for hours.

Aela narrowed her eyes, as though considering whether my question was worth a reply.

I waited and watched her for any signs of sudden movement; my defiance hardened.

"Because unlike _some_ ," she leaned forward and down, until her nose almost touched mine. "I know my place," she hissed through her teeth.

It took all of my willpower to stand my ground. I clenched my jaw to keep me from prolonging this useless – what were we doing, bickering? – and lifted my chin to suffer her glare in silence. Could I Shout at her and watch her tumble across the courtyard? I wanted to Shout at her. I could feel the rush, the power of _Fus_ storming and crashing through my mind, coiling as it prepared to strike.

I pushed it back down. To let it loose on Aela would see me expelled from the Companions, and quite likely be a death sentence.

Her eyes narrowed again, then she turned abruptly and mounted the stairs to the verandah. "If you cannot be here at dawn, do not bother returning, whelp," she uttered without even looking at me, before striding through the back doors and into Jorrvaskr.

I let out an enormous sigh of relief once she had gone, and turned away as I tried to shake off her open hatred.

That's what it was, wasn't it? Aela hated me for playing music for the Companions that night, since she felt it dulled their fire?

I shuddered and mused over how unreasonable she was being; as though I was a _threat_ to her. I walked around Jorrvaskr and made for Breezehome; I would return to the mead hall tonight, but only after I had cleaned myself up and collected my lute.

I _had_ entered into an agreement with Kodlak, and given that I had been training today, regardless of who it had been with, I would make good on my side of the bargain, and perform for whichever Companions could stomach my music, and presence.

I hastened home; a weak smile graced my fatigued form as I realised I truly thought of Breezehome as such.

It was nice to have a home again.

–

While I had forgotten entirely that I meant to stop by the apothecary and buy a potion, as soon as I stepped into Breezehome Lydia took one look at me, frowned, moved to a small set of drawers and withdrew a little red bottle.

She handed it to me and asked me about my first day with a wariness that made plain her disapproval.

I made myself smile, and made light of it; I couldn't bare the thought of her visiting the Companions on my behalf. After downing the potion, she accompanied me to my room so we could talk while I prepared for the night ahead.

The healing potion made me feel a lot better about the day, and I cheerily explained how Aela had managed to teach me the proper way to stand for my frame, and of how I had been shooting at targets for the whole afternoon.

Lydia's caution warmed in the wake of my animation. "If only I had skill with a bow," she shook her head regretfully. "Then _I_ might teach you, and you wouldn't have to go back there tonight."

"I don't mind," I tugged open the drawer full of clothes, pursing my lips and turning back to Lydia as I raised my eyebrows pointedly at her. "How much do I owe you, by the way?"

She glanced to the drawers, then back to me. "Don't start," she appealed.

"No, I insist," I turned back to the clothing, my eyes roving the garments for something to change into. I withdrew a simple, warm brown dress and a white under-tunic, holding both up against my body briefly to check the size. They would fit. "I will not _use_ my friends."

"You're not _using_ me," she tutted, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms. "I'm your housecarl, remember? It's my job to arrange these kinds of things for you," the amusement was back in her tone.

Unlacing my vest, I cast her a pleading glance. "There is a line between organisation and..." I searched, shucking the brown garment off my shoulders, "exploitation. I must pay you for them. When I sell what's in there," I nodded toward my pack, "I will be able to pay you back your loan, too."

Lydia scoffed. "There are more important things in this life than money."

"I know," I conceded quietly, not wanting to offend her as I dragged the sweaty training tunic over my head. "But it would make me feel better about living in your house-"

"Which I would not own if not for _you_ ," Lydia pointed out.

I rolled my eyes, "-if you would allow me to repay you. Somehow," I added hurriedly. "If you don't want gold, then in some other way."

Lydia considered while I stretched out of the leggings and threw the under tunic, then dress over my head.

"I know - you could write a song about me?" she smirked in satisfaction.

I flashed her a doubtful glance as I adjusted the skirts and said nothing. The dress was heavy and warm, made of thick, scratchy wool and the undertunic was longer, silkier and absolutely required or I would have been itchy all night. I tugged the white sleeves through, so they extended the cuffs of the brown, and adjusted myself so the neckline was even.

"Very pretty," Lydia commented as she stepped into the room. "I knew that colour would suit you."

I stared down in interest. "Does it?"

"Yes," she laughed. "It brings out the blue in your eyes," she smiled sadly.

I gave her a sad smile in return. _The same blue as father's._

She cleared her throat. "Let me help," she adjusted the shoulders of the dress slightly, centring the necklace I had thrown on that morning before heading to court, then untucked the Passero seal from the undershirt, so it rested on top of my clothes.

I let her work and watched her attentive movements. I was more grateful than she could imagine that she cared, but I was uncertain of how to show it. Perhaps I _could_ write a song about her, some day, and perhaps if I was lucky I would somehow do her justice.

"There," she dusted me off and took a step back, smiling with satisfaction, though her eyes were still sad. "If only soldier-boy could see you now," she laughed.

I arched an eyebrow, suppressing a flush. " _Soldier boy_?"

Of course, I had mentioned Hadvar to Lydia, but I was _certain_ I had not hinted at any more to our relationship.

She smiled too knowingly for my liking but teased me no more, and returned to the door way. "Lucia kept your lute safe in her room, by the way. I hope you don't mind," she mentioned fondly. "She _desperately_ wanted to play it, and promised she would be careful. It might be a _little_ out of tune."

"It's no trouble," I unbraided my hair and decided to leave it loose for the performance. If Lydia thought the dress looked well on me; that Hadvar might appreciate it; perhaps I could play a more romantic bard tonight. "It's a practise instrument, so the strings are always bound to be a little out of tune. I'll give it to her someday, when I can find another worth playing," I gathered the low shoes from the bottom drawer and a pair of stockings from the top.

"Please," Lydia hesitated. "...teach her how to tune it, before you do," her reply was dry.

I laughed and promised I would. Once shod, I was ready, so I retrieved my lute from Lucia's room (it was _very_ out of tune), bade Lydia good night, made her promise she would not wait up for me, and left. I bundled myself into my coat and scarf, then slung the instrument over my shoulders.

It was twilight, and while there was no breeze for once, a chill to the air clawed through my clothes and seeped straight into my bones.

But I found it invigorating. As I walked, my anticipation for the night's performance wove through and warmed me, and I mused over which piece I would sing first. At once, my fingers itched and I yearned to play, even the silly practise lute.

 _What about Aela and Skjor_ , a small, anxious voice queried? _They will not suffer you filling their sanctuary with songs night after night._

I bit my bottom lip, assuring myself that it would not be my problem, though I wondered how Kodlak might have gotten around their animosity toward me, and my music.

–

Jorrvaskr was warm and lively, in stark contrast to how I had found it late the previous night. I recognised most of the faces within the hall, though didn't know their names with the exception of Njada, and I didn't particularly want to walk up to the fierce woman. Returned from their jobs for the day, the bawdy crowd were regaling one another with their exploits while eating their dinners and drinking what smelled like _quite_ a lot of ale and mead.

I smiled as I stood on the top step of the inner hall and watched them, temporarily taking off my lute so I could shed my scarf and coat. Did they know that I was technically one of their number yet? Would it bother them that I was? None of whom Kodlak had called the Circle were present; himself, the brothers, Aela, or Skjor, and with a thud to my chest, I hoped that the latter had gone out for the night already, again. Perhaps that was how Kodlak had dealt with the problem – he had assigned them some sort of night duty?

 _Surely not_ , I scoffed as the unfairness of such a situation settled on my shoulders. _This is their home._

"Oh! Look who's back!" the Imperial woman who I'd briefly spoken to my first time in the hall saw me and called out. Only a couple took notice of her; the Dunmer and a Nord man with flushed cheeks.

"It's our little bard!" the Nord man called out, slurring his words and raising his tankard to me in toast.

Blinking in surprise at his level of inebriation, given the early hour, I turned and descended to the woman.

"Hey, show some respect, you fool," the Dunmer shoved the Nord's shoulder. "She's the Dragonborn."

I didn't hear the drunkard's reply over the Imperial woman's greeting, but felt several sets of eyes turn toward me at the word _Dragonborn_. So, word had reached the Companions of that already.

"Welcome back," the Imperial woman didn't seem to care; her smile perhaps even more encouraging.

"Thanks," I smiled gratefully. "I'm Celeste," I held my hand out to her. It was time I knew their names, if they were to be my colleagues for the next month.

"I know," she laughed, but extended her hand to mine. "I'd wager everybody in Whiterun knows _your_ name by now. I'm Ria," she added warmly.

We shook. "I look forward to working with you, Ria," I released her hand.

"Working with? Did you...join us?" her pleasant eyes were shining with amusement, and not the sheen of drink.

I nodded, maintaining my smile and ignoring the inquiring eyes of those around me for the moment. "Yes. I've exchanged arms training for nightly performances-"

I was cut off by a voice I hadn't heard before. "You believe _music_ to be compensation worthy of what the Companions can teach you, girl?"

I knew who had said it before I had turned to face the older, grey-haired man who had glared at Lydia the first day I had approached Kodlak. He wasn't openly glaring at me, but it was clear that he wasn't all that thrilled by my arrangement. I gave him a straight-faced look, unwilling to be intimidated by him, as I recalled that he had enjoyed my music as much as the rest, the previous time. "Kodlak believes so. Speaking of which," I dismissed the man, turning back to the friendlier Ria.

Ria tilted her head toward the downstairs area, casting me an apologetic look. "On you go, then, but don't be too long – _I_ want to hear what you'll be singing tonight!"

A few affirmations from several of the others rang out at her words, and I flushed my gratitude as I thanked Ria and turned away, descending the stairs to the lower level as they returned to their dinners and discussions.

Once again, the stark contrast in tone of the levels of Jorrvaskr gave me reason to pause once I was within; the upper being all warmth and merrymaking, and the lower being so much more...solemn.

"- am relieved that you are both returned safe, _regardless_ , Vilkas," Kodlak's voice travelled down the hall to me.

I raised my eyes. The hulking frames of both brothers were before Kodlak; the larger of the two sitting on the flagstones with his legs extended, while the smaller, with his back to me, was kneeling over his brother's outstretched legs. Kodlak was in his chair, but his focus was on the pair, and none of them noticed the door to upstairs closing softly behind me.

"But at such a cost when we had abstained for so long, and to expose-" Vilkas griped regretfully, with bitterness lining his every word.

A hiss from Farkas brought an end to his brother's criticism, and Vilkas' tone changed.

"Keep _still_ , Farkas," he insisted, and not for the first time, by the sound.

"Are you certain I can't have Tilma fetch you a potion-?" Kodlak offered.

"No," Farkas grumbled. "No magic. Just stitch it up."

"A potion isn't _technically_ magic, Farkas-" Kodlak tried in a kind, patient voice.

"Then you have to _sit still_ ," Vilkas said at the same time, punctuating his words by pointedly extending a hand to his brother's chest to steady him.

I had been standing and watching them unobserved for too long, but I had stilled upon hearing the timbre of their discussion, busy in what appeared to be Vilkas stitching up a wound his brother had sustained on their mission.

Slowly, my eyes trained on the brothers and Kodlak in case they suddenly detected me, I reached my hand out for the door, silently opened it, and then slammed it swiftly. I followed the sound by smiling widely and falling into step toward them. "Good evening, Harbinger!" I called pleasantly down the hall.

Kodlak raised his eyes; Farkas, while wincing, glanced my way; Vilkas turned his head. All three sets of silvery eyes looked alarmed.

I halted again, glancing to each of the brothers. "Oh! You're back," I commented, my brightness, and smile, faltering at the caution in their gazes. I felt like a fiend; my words sounding rehearsed even to my own ears.

A silence followed my forced greeting, but Vilkas was the first to turn away, lowering his eyes back to his brother's leg. "As are you," he drawled.

I frowned, turning my eyes to Farkas instead, glancing over him in concern as though realising for the first time that he was hurt. The larger brother was watching me still, his look now more comfortable.

"Are you okay?" I asked quietly, broaching the final few steps to join them, since I had not at once been ordered away, but made sure to keep Vilkas' back between whatever wound he was seeing to and me.

He nodded, smiling fondly. "Nothing a few meads won't fix. Nice to see you ag-," he startled with an; "Ow!" and a mutinous look to his brother.

"Keep _still_!" Vilkas commanded, growling out the last.

"Celeste," Kodlak drew my attention to him; I tore my eyes from the spectacle before me to rest on the Harbinger. He was sitting up in his chair now; his hands resting on his knees. His sobriety made me wonder if he was angry with me. "How was your first day's training with Aela?"

"What?" Vilkas whispered, aghast. His head shot up, his attention at once removed from his brother to stare at Kodlak.

Faltering and casting Vilkas a glance, I made myself speak. "It was fine. I mean," I reconsidered, widening my eyes as I felt both Vilkas and Farkas' silvery gazes turn on me; the questions that I felt there informing me that Kodlak hadn't told them of my recent induction into their ranks.

 _You're a Companion. Act like one._ I let out a long exhale, realising that it would serve little purpose to whine and complain to Kodlak about Aela's methods. Was I a child who needed him to fight my battles for me? "It was fine," I settled evenly, meeting the Harbinger's eyes with determination.

"I am pleased to hear it," the evenness of Kodlak's reply, and the approving nod of his head spoke volumes; he _was_ pleased, I felt, that I had replied thus to him. Perhaps today, he had been _testing_ me, I realised suddenly. And while I had no desire or ability to meet with Aela's approval, I felt lighter in knowing that I had earned some of Kodlak.

"You...are one of us?" Vilkas uttered. I glanced to him; noticing that the warpaint around his eyes had run and mingled with grime that had created trails down his face from sweat. I blinked in surprise when I saw something of distress in his silvery gaze.

I frowned at the look; I had not considered that he might oppose my appointment, given he had appealed to me to take up a contract with them. "I have," I answered simply, with a nod, reasoning that if he took umbrage, he could talk to Kodlak about it later. He would understand the reason for my change of heart, once he learned that I was Dragonborn.

I turned back to the Harbinger, and offered him a small smile, determined to remain serene. "I am here now to fulfil my part in our agreement," I unstrapped my lute from my back and cradled it, ignoring the astonished gazes I felt drifting over me to focus on the man I was talking to. "Where might I set up for tonight, so that I don't disturb those who are not in the mood for music?"

Kodlak's eyes seemed amused by my words. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his reply was as measured as ever as he gave me another approving nod. "Tonight, you may fill the mead hall with your offering; tomorrow the training yard. The night after that," he motioned around the expansive hallway beyond us, "the living quarters will be your arena. Those who do not wish to partake in your melodious gifts have been advised the same."

"Thank you," I bowed my gratitude, sensing that the brothers were exchanging a glance now, and felt relieved that their heavy, searching eyes had finally left me. "I shall return to the mead hall and prepare at once, if that suits you," I added as I lifted my eyes to him.

Kodlak chuckled. "Music is not an undertaking to be scheduled and disciplined," he shook his head fondly. "Go and sit with your shield-siblings, on this, the first night of your affiliation. Take some dinner, and drink if it facilitates your needs and wants. You may begin whenever it suits _you_ , little dove."

I felt rather differently on the matter to him; music _was_ a discipline and furthermore, it was my _job,_ but I saw what he was trying to say. There was no rush, and he wished for me to feel as though I was one of them. I smiled and was about to thank him, but Farkas spoke up.

"You're going to sing for us again?" he asked; the flatness of his drawl making me turn to regard him uncertainly. Surely, Farkas wouldn't oppose me, too?

But there was a trace of a smile on his face, despite his brother's grisly employment, so I reasoned away his tone as being the norm for him. My eyes flickered to Vilkas' hands, working furiously with a thick needle and thread to close a lengthy gash in his brother's knee. I glanced directly back up to Farkas, wishing I hadn't looked down, as I swallowed away the nausea I felt at the sight of the open wound.

"I am," I made myself say; made myself forget the sight. If it didn't bother Farkas, it shouldn't bother me. I nodded, to confirm. "Tonight, and every night from now, until you grow weary of my songs," I gave him a half-smile.

He grinned widely then, shaking his head. "Doubt that'll happen any time soon, shield-sister."

"I may hold you to that some day, shield-brother," I gave him an obliging smile in return, unable to keep my gaze from drifting down to Vilkas again. I had not expected such silence from him upon my return, and it was a little unsettling.

His focus was entirely trained on the wound before him; one hand holding the skin together, while the other guided the needle point through the flesh.

I looked away again. _He is somewhat preoccupied,_ I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself. "All right, then," I cleared my throat, in the hope that it would settle my stomach. "I shall begin within the next half hour, if you wish to join us upstairs," I told Kodlak.

"I look forward to it," Kodlak's reply was genial; enough to once again make my pride swell.

I left them where they were, walking down the hall in the silence. It wasn't until I reached the door that I heard the rumble of their voices again; though this time, I was unable to make out any of their words.

–

I saw nothing of Aela or Skjor that night. I was almost wholly relieved; with a small tendril of guilt in pushing them out of their home winding its way around me to ruffle my contentedness.

The easy-going Ria had introduced me to the rest of their number, undertaking the task as though by being the youngest and newest member of the Companions before I had arrived that it was her duty. Once we had done the rounds of the entire table, and I had forgotten more than half of the names I had heard, she offered me a seat by her and, with wide, expectant brown eyes, asked me to tell her about what had happened at the Western watchtower the previous night.

"Oh," I eased into the chair at the main table, resting my lute in front of me and raising my eyebrows as I wondered over what to tell them. I hadn't expected to be asked about the incident – though of course, they must have heard something of it if they all knew that I was Dragonborn.

 _Bards tell stories as frequently as they sing them,_ I reminded myself; the words not my own, but one of my teacher's. I shrugged inwardly; while I preferred to make music, I had recalled the events of the previous night enough times already to be prepared for this task.

So I told the story, once again able to disconnect myself from the circumstances, to turn the retelling into a performance in itself. I had Ria's undivided attention from the first sentence, and it was not long before I had drawn the attention of the rest of the Companions; even the gruff Vignar Grey-Mane, which happened to be the name of the older man who had questioned the worth of my abilities. His name I would _not_ forget, nor his allegiance; even I knew that the Grey-Manes were staunch Stormcloak supporters.

"It's torrid screeches brought forth another swell of flame as its shadow cast by the moons rolled over Bryor and I like an inky wave; the heady force of its wake striving to expose us from our cover," I spun, glancing up from my audience at the sounds of movement beyond the table. It was Kodlak and the two brothers, making their way from the landing to the table. Farkas was limping slightly, but was unattended, and his nurse seemed appeased of the tension I had felt exuding off him downstairs.

Smiling; pleased that they had appeared, I returned my attention to the assembly before me.

"A volley of arrows was fired at the briefly exposed wyrm's belly before it was lost once again to the pillars of rising smoke; its razor-toothed maw hissing a chilling soliloquy from its temporary refuge; ' _Hin kinboku fent mahfaeraak aus fah daar gein sizaan sos_ ; your children shall forever suffer for this one's lost blood," I glanced up again to nod my hello to Kodlak and the brothers, as they each took their seats, then continued. "Unbeknownst to the dragon, I could hear everything it said, and immediately told the guards around me that our plan was working; we were _winning_ , slowly but surely."

The tale was nearly at its end, and I began to feel nervous as I drew nearer the point in the story where the soul of the dragon would be absorbed. Not because I didn't want them to know of it; I knew that they already did, but because I was hesitant to describe the experience. The event was, in retrospect, both quite beyond words, and somehow deeply personal.

My narrative wound down; the dragon had been slain. I paused, in their eyes for effect, but inwardly shuddered as I reached for the right words. The mead hall was completely silent.

I lowered my eyes, a gravity pressing on my heart as I recalled the next moments for myself. _Speak,_ I commanded myself. _Perform._

"The weight of a dragon's soul might be compared to the explosive death of a sun whose final luminous beams, eschewed of their worldly form, coalesce and reform to design a new life," I sighed, determining to keep direct mentions of myself out of this part.

I made myself look up, glancing with a small smile to Ria beside me, and shook my head. "I daresay you know as well as I what happened next."

"Tell us."

I glanced across the table, my eyes finding Vilkas, who had spoken. I crossed my brows at him, my curiosity rising at the tone accompanying his words; not commanding, but beseeching. The Nord had wiped his face clean of the grime I had noticed down stairs while he had seen to his brother, and only a trace of his black warpaint remained; the lack of it, combined with his earnestness, making him appear younger all at once.

I inclined my head to him, still surprised by his display of what verged on vulnerability before his peers. "As you wish, shield-brother. The soul of the dragon settled around a single foreign word in my mind, that I had learned from a wall in a dark dungeon, a day earlier. It was a word that I had first heard spoken by Ulfric Stormcloak on the night that...changed the life of every man, woman and child in Skyrim," I chose my words carefully, remembering how Kodlak had cautioned me against openly appearing for the Legion, and I didn't dare turn my eyes from Vilkas, to check Vignar's reaction. My blood boiled at the dishonour and my eyes flashed; it was my _job_ as a bard to speak the truth; to call murder for what it was!

My heart hammering at the injustice of my position; of _having_ to dodge the truth delicately, I focussed on Vilkas, for it had been _he_ who wanted to hear this after all, and determined to complete my performance. "The guards who had taken down the dragon realised what had happened to me, before I had," I spoke very quickly now. "They asked me to shout; to show them the power of the dragon's tongue. So I showed them."

I rose, picking up my lute and glancing away from the mounting emotion I saw in Vilkas' eyes; as though he could possibly _empathise_ with me on this matter.

"Now, I feel like a song. What shall it be? All six verses of 'Mead, mead, mead'?" I asked my audience with a forced smile.

I heard a hearty 'here here!' from Torvar's – the drunk one's – direction, but Ria reached toward me; her hand landing on my arm gently.

"Can you show us?" she asked quietly; her tone enthralled.

I looked to her; her wide eyes reminding me of Dorthe or Lucia's, which assuaged the last of my mounting resentment.

I smiled. "I had better not," I raised an eyebrow at her. "It would make an awful mess of your dinner table, and I don't want to create _more_ work for Tilma than she already has."

Ria cracked a smile at this, letting her hand fall back to the table. "Another time, then?"

I assented to this, for now, determined to move on to my lute. "Certainly, if an appropriate time presents itself," I bowed to the Companions; the traditional welcome and farewell of a trained bard. "Excuse me, while I tune my instrument, shield-siblings. I shall be ready to continue tonight's entertainments forthwith."

When I turned my back to the Companions, intent on retreating to the table I had played at last time, I let out a huge breath of air. I was relieved that nobody called me back, or questioned me further on the thu'um, or the dragon.

While I tuned the lute, Kodlak took control of the rabble, standing to advise the Companions gathered of a cause for celebration that night; the successful return of Vilkas and Farkas, and a fragment of 'Wuuthrad'. Whatever Wuuthrad was, Kodlak naming it had some effect on the others; there was cheering and congratulations aplenty.

I smiled at the scene then, relieved that their attentions were elsewhere for a time, and half-listened while I turned the keys into their proper positions.

When Kodlak finished his speech, there was some energised merrymaking for a time. I was not quite ready to begin, but soon would be, and from the sidelines of their jubilant carousal I settled on which song I would play first.

I knew now that my hasty assumption that I could play the romantic bard wouldn't do; those before me wouldn't be satisfied with soft, wooing songs full of yearning and tragedy. They were warriors, returned home and full of adrenaline roused by the day's endeavours.

As was I, if I was honest; and there was only one suitable avenue for me to take to appease both myself and my crowd: _adventure_.

Once my lute was ready, I didn't delay, or even try to find a pause in the Companion's revelry. They would calm down and listen, eventually, I knew. I struck out the opening chords of _Those Who Stood at Chalman Keep_ , noticing movement to my right and smiling thanks as Tilma settled a jug of water and a cup on the table behind me with a kind smile and wink.

Then I turned back to the room, and sang:

" _Gather 'round, proud warriors all,  
Silent now and standing tall.  
Bow your heads to those who sleep,  
Beneath the ground of Chalman Keep._"

A comfort settled over me; a crescendoing relief that started at the tips of my fingers, and drifted out from me, across the room. As with my first performance for them, the Companions grew more interested with each song, and neither stopped nor requested any songs of their own.

My gaze often drifted around the room, interested in how they took my choice of theme. Torvar had fallen asleep on one of the benches by my third number. Vignar sat beside him, nursing a tankard and frowning thoughtfully, but not disdainfully, as he regarded me. Ria had moved to the floor, her legs curled under her as she calmly leaned against the edge of a bench seat, and to my surprise, Njada had joined her, leaning back against a barrel. Atthis – that was the Dunmer's name, wasn't it? – had simply turned in his seat to watch, his hand tapping out the rhythm in time to my melodies.

They enjoyed my offering, of this I was certain. But of the Circle; of Kodlak, Farkas and Vilkas? I was _reaching_ them. I could both see, and somehow feel it. Kodlak listened and watched ardently, his eyes misting with what I could only place as a relieved sort of pride; the lyrics perhaps reminding him of his youth, and adventures he had created for himself in that time. Farkas grinned openly but there was no trace of a leer in his smile or gaze; no, his expression was one of appeased relaxation. Vilkas seemed soothed by the performance, though as ever, his shell seemed the most unwilling to crack. As the night wound on, he grew more visibly tranquil, until what I saw in his silvery eyes scared me.

It was a look I had seen in others, so I knew at once what it was. Most recently I had seen it in Bryor's eyes, after what had occurred at the Western watchtower. It was devotion, plain and pure, and I dared not look at him again, once I realised it, for I felt that I had done little to deserve that level of regard. I was not at one with the champions of yore, for all my ballads about them.

I played and sang for hours, regaling stories of wanderers and knights, villains and victims; stories of Tamriel's true heroes of legend, who had won the honour of remembrance through hard work and sacrifice. I was guided by a profound ache to meet that which was expected of me; a yearning, to be enough.

* * *

 _A/n: So glad to see people are enjoying this story! If you are interested in my style and haven't seen it yet, I have another (completed) Elder Scrolls fanfic on my account, **To the Last Septim**. It's a novelisation of Oblivion (ESIV), and Celeste would not have existed had it not been for that story. I'd love to know what you think of it, too, as it took several years to complete and I still find it difficult to remove myself from the characters that were built within.  
_ _As for this chapter...as a dialogue-driven writer, Vilkas is a cause for vexation, who speaks when he shouldn't and remains silent when he should. But that is in keeping with his character, I suppose, so I'll let it slide for now._


	22. Targets

_Chapter 22: Targets_

I dragged my weary frame back to Breezehome. I hadn't slept for almost two days now, and the fatigue was finally taking its toll.

My head was consumed by a fog of dull emotions, acknowledged but barely felt. There was a smidgen of fresh guilt; Kodlak had reminded me I had a bed in the dormitory when I had visited him to take my leave. I had respectfully declined, again, reminding him that Lydia would worry if I didn't return to our home in the Plains district.

They had let me go; Farkas with a wave as he lifted a bottle of mead to his lips, showing no signs of retiring despite his injury, and Vilkas with a short, bemused 'good night' and a frown, as he flickered a questioning glance to the Harbinger.

I frowned at the road as I shuffled home, trying to dislodge a weary concern over his contrary behaviour. His brother was so open and constant and harmless, but it felt as though Vilkas couldn't make up his mind about whether I was friend or foe. When I played the lute or sang or told stories, he gazed at me with an intent, almost rapturous kind of longing. While it was certainly odd to feel such eyes fixed on me, it was a state the majority of bards strived to attain of their audiences, for an enamoured listener usually gave larger tips.

But when I wasn't performing? He barely acknowledged me, and seemed perplexed by my presence when he did.

I resolved nothing of his nature, as my own thoughts were too bleary. I found my key and unlocked the front door, reminding myself as I relocked it that neither he, nor the other Companions, would be my problem for very long.

I couldn't deny that they _were_ good people, or that most of their number had made genuine effort to welcome me into their ranks. They were people I could have easily come to consider comrades, over time. But while my name might forever be recorded on a list somewhere in their halls, I could never stay with them. I had to learn what I could, and go to the Greybeards.

I didn't even bother to undress as I crashed onto of my bed, and let myself sink into unconsciousness.

–

After several hours sleep that felt like mere minutes, I was woken by a fierce, blinding headache.

I rose to drink some water from the pitcher on my dresser. Through the high window in the hallway between my room and Lydia's, I could see a patch of steely-blue sky. I lowered my cup and groaned, holding my head as it continued to thump relentlessly. It was nearly dawn. That meant I had to stay up, and go to Jorrvaskr.

My head continued pounding as I dressed. I had taken a potion to see to the rest of my body before I had ventured back to perform; why was my head torturing me now?

I dressed much the same as I had the previous day and crept downstairs, glancing around the kitchen for another potion as I threw my coat around my shoulders. There was no time to cook up any food.

But as I wound my scarf around my neck I noticed something that had not been on the table the night before; a cluster of red and green potions at the breakfast table. Crossing my brows, I took up the small note creased beneath the nearest one.

 _Take these with you. No arguments.  
If they are here when I wake, I will bring them to Jorrvaskr personally._

 _Lydia_

Smothering a laugh, for I did not doubt she would follow through with _that_ threat, I pocketed a few of the potions then took up another as I made to go, unstoppering and unceremoniously emptying the contents into my mouth.

The liquid oozed down my throat, and I closed my eyes in relief as the headache receded. _Thank the Gods for Lydia._

When my breaths came a little easier, I opened my eyes, and turned back to the kitchen hastily. Grabbing some charcoal from the hearth, I scribbled a swift thank you note and told her I would be home between the end of my training, and my night's performance.

Once outside, the potion continued to warm and wake me as its effects flooded my system, and the crisp air attended to what the potion didn't. I felt suddenly so alive, so energised, and I fell into a run, racing the impending dawn.

As I jogged, I decided I would not allow Aela to bully me today. She revelled in response, as all bullies did, so I would not give her the satisfaction of one. _Be calm, be focused,_ I schooled. The rhythmic thump-thump of my boots striking the cobbles resounded through me, building a resolve that left me feeling almost serene as I rounded the upturned ship and slowed to a stop in the training yard.

Aela wasn't there.

I frowned, looking around for signs of the disagreeable flame-haired woman, by the targets, on the verandah, up near the Skyforge. Nothing. I had beaten both her, and the sun, to my station.

Shrugging, I moved toward the target I had been shooting at the previous day, and retrieved all the arrows I could find.

"Not even going to say good morning to your teacher?" a hard-edged male voice drawled from the verandah.

I leapt and yelped, turning toward the source of the voice. I searched the shadows as a new dread filled me; I was fairly certain that I knew who it was.

Skjor shifted in his seat and slowly rose; silent and ghost-like.

His face was masked by darkness, and I clamped down on a rising surge of panic as his frame descended toward me.

 _Do not let them bully you,_ I reminded myself futilely.

"Where's Aela?" I stammered before I could stop myself. "She said to-"

"That's none of your concern," Skjor cut in. The tower of muscle stopped before me; arms crossed in expectation.

I leant back forever to make eye contact with him, and the moment I did, I wished I hadn't. His eyes were as hard as his voice and narrowed, as though considering whether _I_ was worth his effort. His gaze bore a similar sheen to those of the Circle, but behind it, one of his eyes was completely white.

My determination faltered, and I tried to transfer my calm onto this new development.

"Sorry," I muttered, lowering my eyes in what I hoped would be taken as a sign of respect. My heart fluttered in my chest, so loud and frantic that I was certain Skjor could hear it. "Shall I begin shooting at the target?"

His reply was a heavy silence, then he stooped down until his eyes were level with mine.

I was compelled to look at him. Both orbs flashed a fierce, golden yellow, reflecting the rising sun for an instant, but then he closed them and took a deep breath through his flaring nostrils.

"So, there's a soul of a dragon in you, huh?"

I took a step back, unable to stop myself. "Please," I stammered, barely a whisper as my voice shook. "I have no quarrel with you or Aela. I am trying to make my way through the world, as you-"

He stood tall and regained his standoffish composure. "I am not interested in back story, whelp."

"Then...what _do_ you want of me?" I managed. I made myself look up again and a flash of frustration rippled through me; cautious but bright. I was angry that I was afraid.

The corner of his mouth rose in snarl. "The sun has risen," he spoke. "Time for you to get to work."

"All right," I agreed. Relieved to have something to do, I turned, adjusted my stance and placed an arrow in my bow.

 _They're just trying to scare you off,_ I reminded myself as I sighted the target I would be trying to hit for the rest of the day. _That's why Aela's sent Skjor in her place. They don't want you comfortable, they just want the run of their home again._

I grimaced, and the truth leant me some courage. I would not be pushed out Jorrvaskr by them. I drew my bow, fully extended and adjusted my aim, before I exhaled and fired-

"Why did you come to us?" Skjor asked, half a second before I released the arrow.

My focus scattered and the arrow flopped out of the bow, pitifully skidding across the earthen courtyard.

I ducked, retrieved another arrow from my pile, and attempted to deliver composure when I replied flatly; "Because I need your help."

Silence again from the Companion. I placed the arrow, and drew. Exhaling, I released the string-

"Kind of selfish, don't you think?" he droned.

I cursed as my arrow soared up – too high, and over the walls of Whiterun.

My head whipped to him; my mind reeled at his childishness and my heart ached from his words. _He's right. You are using them_. Eyes wide with indignation, I dared not say what I wanted to under his glaring, watchful gaze.

I placed a third arrow; my hands shook with restraint, and drew back the bowstring. Instead of loosing, I glanced to Skjor, waiting silently and pointedly for his next interruption.

His mouth flattened into a line. "I asked you a question, new blood," he growled.

Turning back to the target, I aimed swiftly and fired; missing, for I had been too hasty, but at least my arrow thudded in the general vicinity.

I whipped back around to him. "Do you even care how I answer?" I replied stiffly, stooping down and grasping another arrow by the shaft. "You will believe what you wish to believe about me, no matter what I say."

I placed the arrow, glanced to my feet to ensure they were positioned correctly, and the force of _Fus_ pushed against my rising fury, tempting me to unleash it.

 _No._ I raised my bow and focussed on the target instead.

"If a member of the Circle asks you a question, it is your duty to answer it, whelp," he growled, close by my side.

I closed my eyes to reign a yelp in before it escaped; I hadn't heard his approach. "I entered into an arrangement with our Harbinger," I said through clenched teeth. "Is that not enough for you?"

Skjor huffed; a rush of hot air brushed my cheek. He hissed; "Look at you. Insolent, and reeking of fear. The Harbinger _defers_ to us, you petulant child. You will learn your place, or you _will_ be put in it."

When I heard the retreat of boots, I opened my eyes, aimed, and let out a breath as I fired.

My arrow soared and thudded into the edge of the target, but I couldn't even smile at my small success. Retrieving another arrow, I repeated my motions, all the while feeling Skjor's eerie, half-blinded gaze on me like a hawk.

I had loosed three more arrows before Skjor evidently decided it was time to torment me some more. "I grow weary of your woeful aim, whelp. You lack the strength to keep your arm steady long enough for an arrow to soar true," he drawled.

I turned to him, lowering my bow and relaxing my stance. "I know," I told him flatly. "Why do you think I am here?"

No answer; only more hard stares. I returned to my occupation, wondering if I was getting anywhere with him. The last thing he had said to me had sounded dangerously close to _advice_. Aela had been much the same in her tutelage; sniping at me while issuing instructions wrapped around insults, taking any opportunity to belittle me.

Another two arrows loosed; only one thudded into the target, just within the largest of the circles. I wanted to cheer; would have done if not for the presence of my disagreeable shield-sibling, and contented myself with a silent smile. I could get better. I could do this.

"You think that the Companions can teach _you_ to be strong?" Skjor asked in a sharp tone.

Given the time it had taken him to reply, I began to wonder if he had trouble forming his words. The idea made me smirk. I would always win against this warrior, if we fought our battles with words, and with Kodlak's support, he would never _dare_ harm me.

"I do not believe anybody can be taught strength," I replied loftily, feeling suddenly more relaxed and sure of myself.

Of course, I had begged Kodlak that I be taught strength, and implored the Jarl for time to gain some. But given the nature of their replies, I now endeavoured to impart what I had learnt from them, to make myself seem wiser if nothing else, and perhaps give Skjor a response he didn't expect. I stooped down to retrieve another arrow. "Strength cannot be measured by the skill of one's arm, or the stature of one's frame, but by the fire in one's heart-"

Skjor barked a disdainful laugh. " _This_ , from one who would wring a man's power from his core? You know _nothing_ of strength," his words were barbed with ice.

I half shrugged and placed my arrow. Sighting my target, I glanced down to make sure the shaft was still in position, and stable. It was wobbling a little; I tensed my arm, and it stilled.

"Perhaps not," I whispered sadly, and loosed. The arrow whispered through the air and landed in the training dummy next to my target. "But I am willing to embrace it, should it find me."

The Companion barked another humourless laugh as I sighed at the training dummy, and ventured forward to retrieve all the arrows I could locate.

"Where are your eyes, the moment before you loose?" he demanded.

 _There we are,_ I inwardly sighed with relief. Just like Aela.

I tugged arrows free and stooped to gather those that had fallen short, replying as evenly as I could. "The arrow head, to make sure it is steady when I loose."

"Wrong," Skjor fired. "No wonder you can't hit a target to save yourself."

I turned back toward him, because I had collected my arrows and had no excuse not to, and frowned. "Where should my eyes be trained?"

He gave me a withering look and drawled, "Does it matter how I answer? Will you listen?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "I am here to learn, not to make friends. Where should my eyes be before I loose?"

He frowned; bored and distant as he gazed at the Skyforge above us. "The prize," he murmured.

Piling my arrows next to my feet, I turned to the target and resumed practising. _The target_ , I told myself pointedly. It felt strange to trust my hands to do what they had to do, without watching them to be sure they did it.

 _No different to learning a new song on your lute,_ I conceded. After the patterns became second-nature, you didn't have to watch your hands any longer, and could instead focus on other things; emotive intonation or the atmosphere you wanted to create when you performed it. I trusted my hands when they were holding my lute.

I needed to trust them with my bow. I stared at the gaping eye of the target, remembered to breathe, then loosed. This time, my arrow whizzed straight for the target, impacting the circle one out from the centre.

I whooped and jumped into the air, ecstatic. "I did it!" I cheered.

Skjor didn't complain, and I turned to him, wondering at his silence given a fresh invitation to find fault in me.

But he hadn't noticed my celebration at all. His eyes were still on the Skyforge; flitting back and forth across the protruding rock formation before it.

Without sparing me a glance, he turned and purposefully marched for the doors leading into Jorrvaskr.

"Hey! Aren't you going to teach me any more?" I called out, emboldened by my success.

The double doors swung open and slammed closed behind him.

I turned back to face my target, baffled. Had I just...won something? Surely not. There was no _winning_ against Skjor or Aela.

So I shrugged, uncaring of whatever it was that had sent him away. I was better off without him. Ducking to grab another arrow, I resumed my training, as in his haste, my teacher had not told me to stop.

With immense satisfaction, every arrow I fired now thudded into the target, though none broached the large dot in its centre.

–

I had been firing at the target hours when the other Companions filtered into the training yard.

I didn't want to appear weak in their eyes, so despite my aching muscles, I persisted with my target practise.

Athis was first to arrive. He sat on the low step before the courtyard and wound a cloth around his knuckles. I felt his thoughtful eyes on me as I fired, but once he had finished with his hands he shifted to the training dummy farthest from me - perhaps simply so he wouldn't be shot by a stray arrow - and began punching and kicking at it.

When I next retrieved my arrows from the target, the doors to Jorrvaskr opened again.

"Morning, Celeste!" Ria's cheerful tones called.

I glanced up to find her smiling welcomingly at me. "Morning!" I greeted, just as merrily.

By her side was Farkas, and both wielded training short-swords. The mountainous Nord smirked and rumbled 'morning' to me, then the pair descended and settled opposite one another in the middle of the courtyard.

There was no trace of a limp to Farkas' walk; I glanced down to the Nord's knee in surprise. The stitches were still visible and the skin swollen, but the man seemed wholly unaffected by his injury. The pair exchanged a few friendly taunts before they fell into a sparring session.

I lowered my bow to watch in envy and wonder as the smaller Ria battled Farkas. She was incredible; strong and certain in her movements, and while more jerky than graceful, she was _fast_. It was obvious from the start that Farkas was training her; Ria was doing all the work, and Farkas was merely blocking and grunting 'good' and the occasional single-word suggestion.

How long had it taken her to learn to do that, I wondered as I followed their movements? Could Farkas teach me to wield a sword like Ria did?

"Hey. New blood," the rumble of Vilkas' thick accent jerked me out of my thoughts, and my cheeks pinked as I turned to him. He was standing beside me, his arms crossed – I hadn't even heard him approach – with his war-painted eyes trained on my form as he considered me warily. "You planning on shooting that arrow, or have you grown too close to part with it?"

 _What? Was...that a joke?_

Dismissing Ria and Farkas, I turned back to the target and raised my bow. The thump-thump of Athis' strikes against the training dummy accompanied the less frequent clangs and clashes from the sparring pair.

"I'm resting my arms," I covered hastily, positioning my feet and sighting my target. Vilkas' silvery eyes left me, then he shuffled; I assumed he was done with me, until he entered my peripheral.

My eyes flickered to him in confusion, but his focus was on my bow. Rather than waiting for his assessment, for I felt one was imminent, I inhaled, and drew.

"This bow is too large for you," he commented quietly, almost in surprise.

I exhaled and fired; distracted enough that my arrow thudded into the base of the target. My shoulders slumped at the failure, and I reached down to grasp another arrow. "I had a smaller bow," I replied steadily, nocking and righting my stance; determined to show him I could hit the target. "But I couldn't draw it. My arm is too weak. This bow is lighter," I positioned my arms, lifted the bow, inhaled and drew again.

I heard Vilkas take a step back, and hazarded another glance his way, wary of whatever reprimand he was cooking up.

But was checking my stance, my arm; everything about my form. His eyes were critical; his expression more thoughtful than judging.

 _Perhaps Aela and Skjor have given up,_ I reasoned, turning my eyes back to my target. _Perhaps Kodlak has assigned Vilkas to teach me now._

I saw no other reason for him to be here, assessing me. My exhale, as I fired again, carried a weight of relief.

My arrow thudded into the target, though the centre still eluded me.

"Better," Vilkas muttered; his eyes on the target. "Did Aela teach you to stand that way?"

I nodded, looking down to my feet as I repositioned. "Yes. Any wider and I can't draw the bow back far enough to fire," I explained.

He made a disgruntled sound, and held his hand out for the bow. "May I?"

Crossing my brows, I handed it over.

I expected he wanted to test it, but instead he raised one end to his eye-level and took the curled end of the wood between his fingers. With a frown and a tug from his other hand, he unwound the bow string once, twice, and then secured it again.

"Try now," he passed it back to me.

I glanced between the bow and him. "All right," I stooped to collect an arrow, then positioned it in the slightly looser bow string. Next, I steadied my feet.

"Further apart," he schooled. "You won't ever be able to hit a moving target with your knees locked together."

I shuffled my feet further apart, getting closer to the position Faendal had first taught me. "Aela told me that this stance was too wide for my frame," I felt the need to say.

"Aela never thinks about the bigger picture," Vilkas rumbled, low enough that I had the notion he didn't wish our shield-siblings to hear him.

I glanced to him in interest, but his eyes were on my feet. He stepped closer, tilted his head, then nudged my trailing boot to shift it back another inch. "You only borrow strength by keeping your centre high - it will not serve you in the long run," he took a step back. "Better to loosen the string, and learn in a position you will be able to bolt from," seeming satisfied, he glance up, and I _did_ catch a hint of a smile from him then. "No point in teaching you the wrong dance. Your arm will become used to the weight of other bows, over time."

I couldn't help but smile back, and turned my eyes to the target, relieved suddenly that he had appeared. Vilkas seemed the most professional of his shield-siblings, and despite the moments of surly conflict I had caught, it would be easier for everybody if he taught me. By day he was detached; aloof, and I would be able to learn a lot more from him than Aela or Skjor because of it.

I raised and drew the bow, and my arm wobbled as I neared extension - but mercifully, I could continue, and the string extended. I exhaled, and fired.

"See?" Vilkas posed, a little smug. "You _can_ do this."

A smile bloomed in my chest and I let it surface, and not only because he had congratulated me. I watched the fletching wobble in the wake of the impact; the head embedded in the very edge of the centre circle of the target.

–

Vilkas didn't stay with me for long; once my pose was sorted, he sauntered off.

I called out, asking whether he was to teach me any more, and he shot me a dark look and grumbled that he had a _job_ to do.

I came to find these shifts in manner were the norm; he was encouraging one moment and turbulent the next, as though he was somehow two different men. So I shrugged it off, as I did Aela's bullying and Skjor's snarled reprimands. It was who they were, and I had to keep telling myself that as long as I was improving, their attitudes didn't matter.

My days spent with the Companions began to blur. For a week, I did nothing but shoot arrows at targets by day, usually in solitude, but occasionally with a member of the Circle watching over me. Aela and Skjor's behaviour altered; their eyes were less disinterested and cynical, but grew more observant and calculating. It had to be a new plan to make me feel uncomfortable, so as with their previous tactic, I ignored it, and worked hard to meet whatever orders they gave when they deigned to speak.

By the end of the week, I wanted to burn the targets, and glared hatefully at them each time I was told to fire. I could now hit it more often than not, and was itching to improve faster – to learn something new. One whole quarter of my promised time with the Companions was over, and I felt no better equipped to face the Greybeards than when I had begun.

Breaks in the monotony of archery training came at night during my brief hours at Breezehome. Early in the week I dashed home to change for my performance, and met Alvor and Sigrid, sitting around the kitchen table with Lydia drinking tea.

I squeaked in surprise, my aching muscles forgotten, and dashed forward to envelope the pair in a hug; relieved to see their friendly faces. After much laughing and a babbled greeting, I learned that Dorthe was being shown around the town by Lucia. Hadvar's aunt and uncle had been waiting to say hello before departing for home, as the details of the Legion contract had been finalised earlier.

I changed hurriedly then lingered far longer than I should have, but I wanted to hear about their arrangements with Adrianne Avenicci. While I listened, I regretted my all-consuming contract with the Companions - it gave me no true time to myself.

But my music consoled me, and after apologetically leaving them, I sung a programme of songs about family and friendship, honour and duty. My duty was laid out before me; a path to prepare for the pilgrimage ahead. I could not stray from my promise to be better, faster, stronger, and _more_ than I currently was.

Another reprieve from routine arrived that evening; I returned home to change after training, and found a sealed letter on the kitchen table, addressed to:

 _C Passero,  
Breezehome, Whiterun._

I recognised the hand and a squeak of surprise left me – startling Lucia but making Lydia laugh loudly.

"Are you all right?" Lucia asked gently, glancing uncertainly Lydia's way.

"I'm fine," I managed, my cheeks burning as I tucked the letter into my coat pocket.

I fell into the nearest chair and made a few minutes small talk with them, not really paying attention to conversation or food, before I stood and arched my back.

"Well, I'd best get dressed for my performance," I said brightly, making for my room.

"Okay!" Lucia called merrily after me.

As I ascended the stairs, she asked Lydia in a low voice, "It's from that soldier, isn't it?"

 _Yes, it is,_ I thought silently in triumph. My mind and heart raced and my stomach fluttered with nerves; now I could read what he made of this Dragonborn business.

 _Please believe me,_ I begged as I broke the seal and sat on the edge of my bed.

 _Dear Celeste,_ Hadvar's letter began.

 _I have moments before my Captain calls me away and my duties tear me from wondering over your remarkable story._

 _But first, I express my deepest appreciation for securing my family's contract with the Avenicci's. As ever, you saw into the heart of the matter and stepped up when an opportunity presented itself - and not because you had to. Because you wanted to. Being unable to help them by day is one of my deepest regrets in joining the army, but you have delicately unknot that anxiety for me through your selflessness. _

_Thank you. I wish I could thank you in person; words do nothing to express the depth of my gratitude._

My flushed renewed. I had not expected this...glowing praise, but it warmed me. _I wish you were here, too,_ I mused, and read on:

 _You asked how the war fares, but I have little to report that might interest anybody. Our camp in the Pale is no great secret to those who live in these parts. We are visited daily by roaming merchants and smiths and bards, all seeking coin in these uncertain times who are all met by polite yet comprehensive questioning to ensure they aren't Stormcloak spies before they enter our camp. We are also lately venturing out in small brigades to locate an artefact our commanding Legate believes Stormcloak is searching for, in an attempt to legitimise his claim to the High King's throne._

I frowned; the warmth of Hadvar's opening cooled. The High King or Queen of Skyrim couldn't simply _take_ the position as they liked, ancient relic or not. They were assigned the honour at a moot, and that was that. And even I knew that Ulfric Stormcloak would never be successful in appealing to the moot; not after the havoc he had unleashed with his selfish, impatient actions, or the lives that had been torn apart because of it.

Hadvar went on to address my thoughts directly;

 _It's strange to think that a man who proclaims to love Skyrim fails to understand how our leaders are chosen, but perhaps I shouldn't expect logic from a tyrant._

I could sense the resignation in his words, and my frown doubled; I shuffled, drawing my feet up onto the bed and tucked them under my legs.

 _The days are long, and with legions of Stormcloaks in the region also searching for this crown, skirmishes are frequent. When there are no Stormcloaks left, there are draugr to deal with; I daresay I have struck down enough take you on your next quest!_

My heart thudded, despite his bravado; he was fighting for his life, daily - hourly? And for what – some _artefact_? Why was the Legion wasting time and people on _that_? Did they truly believe Stormcloak would become High King if he obtained it?

 _Speaking of Bleak Falls Barrow. And - everything else. I'm worried for you, but I'm also unduly proud. Thane, Companion and Dragonborn, huh? Maybe being on that cart in Helgen makes more sense, as though you were supposed to be there, for bigger reasons._ _News of what occurred at the Western watchtower hasn't reached my post but I look forward to hearing your name spoken with reverence by my peers in the days to come._

He wrote as though there had never been any doubt - he _did_ believe me. My nerves settled, and I smiled, lying down on my pillow, holding the letter up to read its last.

 _Once everyone knows you're Dragonborn, you might gain some unwanted attention._ _I'll be surprised if the General doesn't summon you, to try collect you for the Empire. Stormcloak has the gall to try the same, despite what his actions meant for your family._

 _The choice is yours, of course, but - promise me you won't sign your life away to the army, no matter the entreaties woven to take advantage of your impeccable good will. You are more important than this war._

I crossed my brows, though my heart ached at his disclosure. I hadn't considered being Dragonborn might attract the attention of the armies. If forced to take a side, I was of course for the Legion, but gratefully, I already had my excuses if either approached me, which had nothing to do with the dragons.

I was Thane to Jarl Balgruuf. As long as he remained neutral, I could do the same.

Not that I would make a very good soldier. And perhaps that was why Hadvar expressed such fear at the notion. I read on:

 _How are you? Underneath all the dragon stuff and accolades - how is the woman who saved me in Helgen?_

I snorted; I had done nothing but hinder him there. Perhaps he was being ironic.

 _It warms my heart to hear about the Companions and little Lucia, and Lydia. If she was your father's housecarl, perhaps the Jarl will make her yours?_

I smiled; that had already occurred.

 _Shall your reply relate another six counts of your elevation; are you at this moment Thane of three more holds?_

 _I await your next, with anticipation,_

 _Hadvar_

I could feel the amusement in his last, and laughed quietly as I rose and placed the letter in the chest at the end of my bed for safe keeping. I didn't have time to answer him now, but I would do so - soon.

I made myself think about what I would play instead. I was to perform outside tonight, on the verandah, which meant that Aela and Skjor would be within Jorrvaskr.

I bit my lip in concern as I recalled the coldness to Aela's gaze throughout the course of the day. I had wanted to stop firing and ask her _what_ – what specifically was she searching for, and I would give it to her, if it would make her stop looking at me like that? But I had made a promise not to be scared by her or Skjor, which meant that I had to refrain from reacting.

She had only spoken to issue commands; trailing arm higher, feet parallel, watch the angle of your hips. But for the perpetual judgment in her expression and tone, I could have believed she was actually helping me.

I layered up. A bonfire was usually lit in the courtyard when I played outside, but not even fire could not stop the icy breezes that crashed over the wall or the flurries of snow that occasioned to brush against my exposed cheeks and hands but never seemed to settle long enough on the earth to transform Whiterun into a frosty wonderland.

Leggings, thick undertunic, woollen socks, trousers, quilted overtunic, scarf, boots. Hair secured. I didn't look like a bard tonight, but then I had started to feel less like an isolated performer, and more like a woman singing for her peers because she desired to do so.

I grabbed my lute and made haste for Jorrvaskr, calling my apologies to Lydia and Lucia as I darted past them.

If I sang well, perhaps I could finish early, and return to write my reply to Hadvar. Not that I had much to tell him, compared to my previous letter, but I wanted to make contact with him again as soon as possible.

–

The air surrounding my audience was perceptibly tense, owing to Skjor's presence amongst those assembled on the verandah.

When my confused glance to Kodlak yielded no response, I continued with my preparations. My awareness of the warrior heightened; the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I felt his eerie gaze settle, and remain, on me.

What was he doing? Had he grown weary of tormenting me by day to no avail, so had decided to throw off my performance tonight? Perhaps he thought if he made me too scared to play, the other Companions would grow bored of my efforts.

 _No_ , I determined. I would not let him affect me. I was a professional; I could manage a heckler amid those who _did_ appreciate what I had to offer. Given Kodlak's response to my music, I doubted he would allow Skjor to openly intimidate me.

Try as I might to forget him, Skjor set the tone for my performance as I strived to reach him, as I so effortlessly had Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas. My programme consisted of old, traditional songs, with lyrics exuding loyalty and camaraderie.

I glanced over the crowd to gauge the reaction of my listeners, and made eye contact with Skjor several times. He leaned against a support beam, silent and ever-watchful, though once or twice, I was sure his eye twitched; the only possible signal of restraint. Otherwise, he seemed wholly unmoved by my performance.

My attentions left Skjor and I continued to check on those whose reactions I could rely on. As ever, Kodlak seemed lost in serene thoughts, Farkas seemed blissfully, openly relaxed, and Vilkas seemed-

I sat back and took a proper look at him. Vilkas wasn't watching me; he was watching Skjor; his eyes narrowed, and his mouth a grim, straight line.

The nerves I had worked so hard to suppress soared; if _Vilkas_ was watching Skjor, _something_ was afoot.

As if my suspicions needed confirming, the doors from the mead hall opened and _Aela_ stepped out. My heart leapt into my throat, and I fought to keep my exterior calm.

" _His tomb was built upon this lake, and in his name this oath I take.  
Should evil come, should night descend, I swear the Rift I will defend,_" I sang the final stanza of _Geirmund's Oath_ with a noticeable shudder to my voice, and turned my eyes down, watching my fingers pluck out the last few bars so I wouldn't have to look my formidable shield-siblings.

I brought the song to a close. In the silence, the wind whistled over the walls of Whiterun to my left. A flicker of red caught my eye; sparks from the bonfire, twirling high on the breeze and blinking out as they ascended.

I swallowed and turned back to my crowd. I felt as though I was perched on some terrible precipice, and that no matter which path I chose, I could only tumble down from here.

 _One more,_ I commanded; glanced to those who were not of the Circle. "My final piece tonight will be _An Ode to the Red Bird_ , unless there are any objections?"

There were, but not about my choice of song.

"No! Aw, Celeste, don't stop yet!" Ria's call rang out, distinguishable from the others.

I smiled sadly to her and shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I'm nearing the end of my strength. The cold night air does my throat no favours," I wound excuses, feeling wretched for lying to her.

But I could not sit by and wait for whatever Skjor and Aela had planned for me.

The protests persisted, but I stuck to my story and punctuated my determination by strumming the opening chords. I cleared my throat of the lump that had lodged in there, in preparation for the lyrics. It was a trickier, livelier number than I would have usually finished with, but as with my excuses, I was committed to play it out.

" _Let us fly together, dear red bird,  
set aside the idle talk of stern elders,  
as you set aside the ground below_," I sang.

The music managed what my mind could not on its own, and forced me to focus on something other than Aela and Skjor. My anxiety drifted away as I progressed, and by the end of the song, I found myself able to genuinely smile again.

At the close of my performance I rose and made the traditional bow amidst applause and cheers of my comrades. I couldn't mask the satisfied smile on my face; my music had been appreciated, and that was all that mattered to a bard.

I half-watched Aela and Skjor for signs of movement, of _anything_. Then Aela shifted; my eyes flashed to her, but she merely approached Kodlak and Vilkas and started talking to them. Skjor departed at once and was the first to re-enter Jorrvaskr.

I sighed with relief and with a few hurried farewells, I took my leave. As I turned and descended the few verandah stairs, several of the Companions made for the mead hall after Skjor, and as I walked past the ramp leading up to the Skyforge, I wondered if it was possible the worst of my interactions with the disagreeable pair were over.

I sighed and glanced around the Cloud district; made myself breathe deeply and think positively. All was silent but for a few patrolling guards crossing the courtyard beyond, making their way to Dragonsreach, perhaps at the end of their shift.

I turned right and was about to descend the stairs to the Gildergreen when the sound of the main doors to Jorrvaskr opening caught my attention. I turned to glance over my shoulder, curious about who might be setting out on a job at this hour.

"New blood," Skjor called to me, his voice steady as he clicked the door closed. "I need to talk to you."

I stilled; my stomach clenched. I met his gaze and suppressed a shudder at the _triumph_ I saw in him.

 _Of course you weren't reaching them,_ a cruel voice scoffed.

I turned properly, so I faced him. "All right," I agreed quietly, placing my lute over my shoulder so I could run unhindered if I had to.

 _Run? What do you think is happening here?_

Skjor smirked, still too proud to settle my heart thumping frantically in my chest. At once, I had the notion that he _wished_ for me to run.

I swallowed, praying for _any_ other Companion to walk around the ship and cut through the rising tension.

"What is it that you need of me?" I asked. My voice was too scared, too small.

The smirk persisted, and he tilted his head to his right a little. "Got a job for you," he descended and made for the path I had just walked, back around the Skyforge side of Jorrvaskr.

I remained where I was. My instincts surged at my inaction; insisted that I flee while I could. "Can it wait until morning? I'm really quite tired-"

"No. We do this now," he cut over me in a quiet growl, casting a glare over his shoulder, and nodding in the direction he wanted me to go with a flick of his head. "Do not make me repeat myself, whelp," he added darkly.

I was stunned into action, otherwise I would never have stepped forward to meet him.

When I found myself beside Skjor, looking up into his hard eyes, I opened my mouth to speak, but didn't know what I could possibly say. My lower lip trembled in injustice, and I wondered if I should scream.

"The bard, rendered silent?" Skjor mocked. "You can be taught after all. Come on," he sighed and started trudging around Jorrvaskr. "This won't take long."

His tone was almost bored again, which leant me curiosity enough to follow the warrior, for now. I glanced around the courtyard as it swam into view, but my heart sank as I saw that it was empty of Companions. The bonfire in the courtyard was out; someone had thrown sand over it already.

"That's far enough," Skjor took my arm.

I skidded to a halt, glancing up in confusion and willing him to release me.

He didn't, but his hold shifted so his enormous hand contained my wrist. With utter nonchalance, he turned to the rock wall and pressed an inconspicuous knob at about his shoulder-height.

The rock split and parted, revealing a darkness beyond. Like a tomb.

"What is this?" I asked hurriedly, trying to twist my arm loose.

Skjor's grip tightened, but he said nothing. As rock whispered against rock, the gap became large enough for us to walk through.

Skjor gave me a sideways glance. "You came to us to gain strength, didn't you?" he asked in a rumble.

I nodded hastily. My eyes were drawn to the impenetrable darkness within the hidden cavern. "Yes, but-"

" _But_ ," Skjor cut me off swiftly, "you have found yourself wanting," he supplied.

I closed my mouth, and dared not dispute. My progress had been slow, but it _was_ progress.

He must have taken my silence as agreement, for he raised his eyebrows as he tugged me forward, "Well," he took a step into the dark passage. "This is your lucky day, sister."

–

For minutes we walked through the dense darkness in silence. I wondered how Skjor could see anything, for the blackness was so consuming that I wanted to shuffle to be sure I wasn't about to trip over something. I felt my voice would be swallowed and lost if I tried to speak, so I didn't attempt to.

Underneath my uncertain fear, my cheeks flamed with embarrassment at my inability to stand up to this determinedly frightening man. What _was_ he playing at? What did he mean, _lucky day_?

 _Remember, you can Shout,_ I repeated to myself over and over. Yes. If it came to it, I could shout and run.

We turned a few times, and eventually a dull light revealed itself, far ahead in the gloom.

Another turn, and it brightened marginally, and in the face of it, my heart rate quickened and I found my voice.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked as steadily as I could manage.

Skjor remained silent, and continued to lead me toward the light.

 _Calm down_ , I commanded myself. _You need your wits about you. Breathe._

I breathed. I forced myself to take the slow, deliberate breaths of my teachings. _You are a bard. You can talk your way out of anything._

I glanced around the cavern Skjor led me into; scoured the corners and pools of shadow for possible exit points. There was another tunnel to the left I could run into, but I would need to procure the light first - a lantern, flickering away on the ledge of a great stone basin next to...

I gasped and tried to recoil, but Skjor's grip on my wrist tightened even more.

"Steady," he schooled in a drawl. "You don't want to startle her."

I barely heard him. My entire focus was trained on the beast standing behind the stone basin. It was tall, dark, and furred, with ears pinned back against its skull and a snarling maw in which sharp teeth were bared. One shining white tooth dripped a glob of something as I stared. Its shoulders were impossibly wide, wider even than Farkas'; its arms were heavily corded, and its thick, knobbly fingers ended in claws the size of a bear's.

But its eyes - _terrible_ eyes - burning gold, reflecting the glare of the lantern between us, trained on me and daring me to run.

Skjor urged me closer to the creature.

"Celeste," he warned in a paternal, patronising tone, " _this_ is what strength looks like."

I shook my head in disbelief. "It's a werewolf," I stuttered quietly. "It will tear our throats out. Please, get us out of here," I stammered.

The creature growled; a low, displeased sound.

"Show some respect," Skjor tugged me closer to the stone basin and pressed a hand to my shoulder to make me kneel by its side. "You don't recognise your own shield-sister?"

I landed hard on my knees, but didn't feel the jarring pain; I couldn't look away from the looming werewolf across the basin. "Shield-sister?" I whispered incredulously. This creature was _Aela_?

"Aela has agreed to be your forebear," Skjor released my shoulder but kept a loose hold of my wrist; another warning in itself. The werewolf's – _Aela's_ – eyes never left me; the glinting orbs rose and fell in time with its heaving breaths.

When I didn't answer, Skjor's grip tightened again. "A choice is before you, Celeste," he said through clenched teeth. "Should you accept the beast blood, Aela and I will teach you to master it and you will have that which you desire; the strength of a warrior, to appear before the Greybeards."

He released my wrist and I gasped with relief, grabbing it and rubbing at what would be a bruise by morning – if I lived that long.

"Or," he took a step away, then another, and then turned, to stand beside the waiting werewolf. When his eyes met mine, they flashed gold for a second. This time I _knew_ it wasn't a trick of the sun.

Skjor was one as well – a werewolf. I could never have imagined it, but it explained so much – their manner toward me, their talk of knowing one's place, their hatred of my music for calming their nerves-

I closed my eyes in realisation, as the truth resounded in my chest. They were _all_ werewolves. Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas yearned for my performances for the very reason that Aela and Skjor despised them.

And now _Skjor_ , of all people, was asking me to become one of them? _Why?_

"Or what?" I asked softly and made myself face him.

He grinned; a toothy leer, then he raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Or, you run."

Skjor left the rest unsaid. There was no need to explain; I understood at once. If I ran, Aela would chase me. She would catch me. And she would tear me to pieces.

Tears welled in my eyes and I shook my head. There was no choice here; I had to go along with them, or die. "Why are you doing this? I will leave the Companions, if that's what you want, just-"

The werewolf-Aela growled more impatiently than before as it swept a huge, clawed arm forward.

Skjor barked a laugh. "It's too late for that now, sweetheart. You know our secret," he added, in a lower voice. "Either you are with us, or you are food."

I shook away tears of frustration and gripped the side of the basin, to steady myself. "Fine!" I cried, dashing my tears hastily before they could fall on their own. "Turn me into one of you. If I want to live, I have no choice."

Surprise crossed Skjor's features, but it was gone almost at once as he turned to look _up_ to Aela. "Well. You heard her," he spoke up victoriously. "Let her drink from you."

The beast took a step closer to the basin and raised her front limb swiftly. I turned my eyes down and fought the urge to vomit as she tore her claw across her arm and spilled her own blood.

I watched in horror as the trails of ruby liquid dripped, shimmering in the lantern light as they trickled down into the basin.

"Drink," Skjor commanded.

I cast him a wide-eyed glance as bile rose in my throat. If I drank that, I _would_ throw up, of this I was _certain_.

"Once the beast blood takes you," he droned, "Kodlak and his weakened pups will see it is futile to suppress its call."

Dread swept through me. So this was Skjor's game. He wanted to punish his shield-siblings.

 _You wanted to be strong, and quickly, didn't you,_ I tormented as I watched my pale hand reach into the basin and gather a half-handful of the thick blood. _Now you will be._

I raised my hand and sniffed the irony liquid quickly; its pungent tang made me want to heave.

But before I could lift the drink to my mouth, a tormented howl echoed through the cavern, and an enormous, furred blur of muscle crashed into me.


	23. Beast

_Chapter 23: Beast_

I screamed, knowing that pain and death was to come. This had all been a trick; Aela had always intended to kill me.

The mass of fur and muscle leapt off me at once, and sprung over the basin beside me to tackle...Aela.

I scrambled back automatically in an attempt to hide myself in the shadows of the cavern as my mind caught up.

 _It's another werewolf._

The two furious beasts blurred as they slashed and swiped and bit into each other. Skjor cursed loudly over their snarling, drawing my wide-eyed attention to him.

At once I wished I hadn't, but found myself unable to look away.

Skjor's skin rippled and stretched by some force within his frame. His face lengthened and his shoulders widened. Hair sprung up, everywhere - so much hair - and his teeth elongated to points. His armour fell to the ground with a clatter; his eyes, one still blinded white, narrowed and darkened and sank further into a now lupine skull.

Finally, as though to signal his completion, both eyes flared gold. The moment they did, he sprung into the fray.

The raging, furred storm snapped and growled, but it was impossible to see where one werewolf ended and another began. They were like an angry, roiling cloud, so impossibly _fast_. All I could do was stay where I was and observe and hope that they would forget I was here.

The remains of Aela's blood dried on my palm, caked with dirt from the cavern floor. I wanted to run but feared it would draw their attentions, and they'd fall upon me.

After minutes of frenzied brawling, the three werewolves rolled apart. The one nearest me returned to its rear haunches and stood tall. It bared its fangs and let out a deafening, wrathful roar; its enormous, corded arms shuddered as its hands – paws? – clenched into fists the size of my head.

The other two werewolves turned and _ran_ down the left passage I had noticed earlier. They barked and snarled, but the sound of their retreat, and the trailing echoes, drifted to nothing and the chamber grew very suddenly still, and silent.

The remaining werewolf's head snapped to face me; its teeth bared and eyes shining, glazed over from the light of the lantern, which had somehow survived the ordeal, though now lay on the floor between the beast and myself, flickering frantically in its futile attempt to escape.

I stared back, unable to even flinch as the paralysis of fear took hold. My legs ached, curled awkwardly beneath me on the cold, hard floor. Was this my defender? Or one of the other two? Would they kill me, or force me to drink what remained of Aela's blood in the basin?

I couldn't even remove my hands from my ears, fearing that any movement might startle the creature. My heartbeat raced in my head, thumping like a frantic, caged bird, and I silently begged it to slow down and shut up; surely, the beast would hear its fluttering panic, and be enticed to still it.

In a heartbeat and with a rush of hot, dense air, the werewolf loomed over me. Its front arms caged me as its maw stilled, its nose an inch from mine. The heat poured from its form, crashing over me like a musky summer's breeze.

"Please," I whispered; the word thick with tears I couldn't shed. Its golden eyes bore into mine; accusing, disappointed, demanding that I acknowledge it – or rather, _him_.

And like that, I _knew_ him; rather, I knew that _look_. The eyes were the wrong colour, but it was _Vilkas_.

I was able to breathe again and my vision cleared; my panic ebbed. I lowered my hands, hoping that in this form, he might snarl but wouldn't bite, uncertain of how much control he truly had. I reached one tentative hand up to his elongated maw, examining a gash made by another's claws, deep enough to open the flesh.

He took slow, snorting breaths as his golden gaze followed my hand; a low growl issued from the back of his throat the moment before I touched him. But he didn't stop me from making contact.

I tested the gash, easing a palm across his sweaty, furry head, checking over his injury. I had the notion that the warning growl had not been for me. The cut was not as bad as it looked; it was shallow, but it was a marvel he had not sustained a more serious injury.

"Oh, Vilkas," I whispered; an apology for not realising – for not putting together all I had seen. I could never have guessed _this_ , but I might have understood _something_ ailed them, if I had only paid more attention to _their_ needs, not merely my own. I had done it again; I had used those who helped me ill.

The werewolf blinked; a slow, laboured sagging of eyelids. When they opened again his eyes were desperate; pleading for palliation.

All the tension he had constantly borne; the fragments of conversation I had caught between him and his Harbinger; his talk of _abstaining_ and of course, the soothing effect that my music had on him – it all made sense. Unlike Aela and Skjor, he _despised_ what he was. I couldn't begin to understand the demands that such a power – or curse – held over their forms and minds; all I knew was that somehow, my performances appeased the beast, and made it easier for them to bear. Vilkas' intensely devoted gazes while I sang weren't _love_ in the traditional sense of a man whose heart had been momentarily captured by the alluring romanticism of a trained bard. He looked on me with relief, and deepest gratitude, for the brief peace that the notes brought him.

A peace which he needed help obtaining, right now.

" _That is not cruel which cures_ , _O faith, charity, rigour,_ " I sang quietly. My voice wavered, full of emotion and adrenaline. I paused; watched him for response, suddenly wondering if the beast in facing its suppressor might lash out at the sound of my voice.

The werewolf's huge head sagged against my palm in defeat; his golden eyes closed again.

" _By faith true heart endures, O hope, clarity, vigour_ ," I continued, my voice gaining strength and timbre at each moment as the song worked its magic to soothe me as well.

The werewolf began to shudder and shrink as I continued to sing. Its coarse hairs and ears and elongated nose retreated as the creature expelled another weighty gush of air.

" _Seventy-Seven shall guide us, O praise, honour, and duty_ ," I sang softly, letting my hand fall to my lap as I shifted backwards so Vilkas wouldn't fall on top of me when he recovered. His arms, legs, and shoulders all shrank, growing pale in the flickering lantern light.

" _Alessia lives inside us, And truth is one with beauty_ ," I took another deep, calming breath of my own as I intoned the last of the lyrics.

The inky-haired Vilkas I knew and treasured crashed down, leaning heavily on his bare knees and forearms.

He groaned as though he'd woken from a deep sleep and lifted his shaggy head slowly, though remained doubled over; clearly spent from the demands of the transformation.

"Thank you," he muttered. "I haven't..." he faltered, arching his back with another pained groan as he lowered his head. His fingers curled, trying to find purchase in the rock of the cavern floor.

When he recovered from whatever spasm had caught him, and glanced back up to me through his hair, I met his eyes with a look that I hoped conveyed empathy. He simply watched me, his uncertainty plain. I would have found his wariness of _me_ amusing, had the situation been less startling and raw, but at this moment I could only feel compassion, and deep within, a prickle of rising guilt. The gash that he had sustained in his werewolf form glistened in the lantern light; a diagonal slash across one of his cheeks, but shallow enough, even now, that I knew he would not suffer from it.

"Why did you come here with Skjor?" he asked finally, aghast, in a whisper. "Do you _want_ to become a monster?"

I flushed, shifting a little further back and up onto my knees, giving myself time to collect my thoughts, and find some way to explain that wouldn't render me a mess of quaking tears, or screaming fury. Vilkas didn't deserve either response from me, but I could feel the adrenaline of the incident thumping through my veins and demanding action and retribution.

"Skjor gave me no choice," I told him simply, as evenly as I could manage, so I came off sounding a little more tight-lipped than I had wanted to. I shuddered at the realisation that I _had_ very nearly drunk Aela's blood, and become one of them. "It was either drink, or be hunted."

Vilkas shook his head in vexation and growled; his sweat-slicked hair covering his once-again silvery eyes. I was relieved to see them rid of gold. "Better to die and ascend to Sovngarde, than to serve Hircine eternally!" he berated the cavern floor, his fury plain.

"I didn't want to die!" I fired back at once, my tone becoming even harsher. I bit my tongue as I winced, and took another deep breath to try and appease my own inner monster.

Vilkas regarded me with that astonished disappointment that made my chest ache. "There are worse fates than death in this world."

I maintained his gaze, and trembled as I demanded that my response be controlled. "You can't understand," I said in a lower voice. "It is nothing for you, who has always been strong enough to fight, with a family who can fight beside you," I sat back on my feet, resting my clenched fists on my knees, glancing around the cavern to give myself a reprieve of his judgement. The knowledge that I had disappointed him burned more than I could have imagined, and thick, hot tears rose in my throat, threatening to choke me.

"You are one of us," he drawled, though there was a sense of appeasement to his otherwise flat statement.

I _did_ turn my eyes back to him, to give him an unimpressed look. "Am I? When all I do is take what I can?" I asked, as flatly as him. The shock was now making me shake more forcefully; willing me to scream _FUS_ and flee this dark, dank cavern that smelled of earth and blood, and drink in breath after cool breath from the skies. "I am weak, and Skjor promised me strength," I managed around the claustrophobic feeling throttling me.

Vilkas growled in frustration again, sounding more like his werewolf form than himself, and I startled back. He knelt, sitting back on his feet as well; his hands falling automatically to cover himself. Only then did I realise that he was naked, but my own fear and shame had already turned my cheeks pink, and my reeling emotions left no room to feel embarrassed on his, or my, behalf.

"You have rendered us a service equal to, if not _exceeding_ the worth of what little training you have been given," he thundered. "Do you _honestly_ believe, after all you have seen, that your talents haven't helped us in turn?" he demanded, sounding more anguished, but continued on hurriedly, shaking his head as though to dislodge some of his rampant emotions. In a less passionate, though still quite loud voice, he added, "You will never have the might of Ysgramor, but your _strength_ , Celeste, has given us hope again. Hope that our souls might not be lost to Hircine's hunting ground upon our deaths after all; hope for _salvation_."

On the edge of my awareness, I thought it odd that he was yelling this at me; Vilkas' words seemed too earnest for his chosen level of ire and volume. Perhaps it was the werewolf within him, so recently subdued, driving him to rage.

 _You shouldn't be angry, either,_ I reminded myself. _You're allies. And, he just saved you._

I closed my eyes and made myself breathe deeply yet again; my regular calming exercises had done little to comfort me in the wake of Skjor and Aela's ambush. I coughed; the air of the cavern was stifling, and too thick with bad thoughts and smells. I grimaced at it, opening my eyes to Vilkas' flashing ones in defeat. I could not find my calm in here.

"Can you lead me out of this place, please?" I asked, my voice shivering as I unsteadily rose to my feet. "I need to see the sky," I added in a rush.

It was the break from our argument – why were we arguing? – that both of us needed; the fury in Vilkas' eyes abated; a process reminiscent of the recent shifting of his golden eyes back to their natural silver.

His look was once again uncertain as he regarded me, and he faltered, replying to me with a question of his own. "Can I borrow your coat?"

"Of course," I placed my hands on my lute strap immediately, drawing the instrument over my shoulders and setting it aside so I could undo the toggles and remove my coat without becoming entangled.

"Thanks," Vilkas murmured gruffly as I passed the bundle to him. He tied the material around his hips, by the arms of the coat, then rose slowly, as though testing his balance. He seemed so young; so vulnerable; the muscles on his pale chest and arms shuddering as he closed his eyes and tested his breathing. It was as though he had to check that he recalled how to act on the base, human instincts that we usually took for granted.

It was this image of him that I would remember for the rest of my days; the man recovering from his war with a demon. I watched him, noting how his calming technique was not all that dissimilar from my own. If this disaster of a night didn't see me cast out of the Companions forever, I vowed that I would work harder at being a decent person – a decent _friend_ , to these troubled souls.

After another long exhale, Vilkas opened his eyes. He seemed more himself; or at least, at little more in control than he had been. "Take my arm," he instructed. "It is too dark for your eyes, to follow behind me," he added begrudgingly.

I wordlessly took his offered elbow, realising that _of course_ , that had been why Skjor hadn't needed any light to traverse the dark walkways earlier.

Vilkas' arm, and entire body beside me, seemed to exude heat, but it was not an unwelcome sensation, given the consuming pitch we were striding into. It reminded me that I wasn't lost and alone in the nothingness.

Once we were on our way, I felt easier, and from the cover of darkness, I realised aloud; "Skjor and Aela must have...planned this..."

I trailed off at once, wishing I had never voiced my thoughts; unable to suppress another shiver as I recalled their strange behaviour during my performance. They had stood there, observing me, knowing what was to come. They had acted, the moment I had finished; Skjor making his way through Jorrvaskr to intercept me on the other side, and Aela distracting Kodlak and Vilkas long enough for him to do so.

Vilkas' lack of verbal reply to my thoughtless musing was somehow deafening, but I felt his arm under my hand tense, and his pace increased. I matched his speed, wondering suddenly if Aela and Skjor would suffer any ramifications for their premeditation, or if by being members of the Circle they would somehow be exempt? Surely not. Even mercenaries – even _werewolves_ – had to have some sort of moral guidelines, didn't they?

"How did you know I was here?" I asked the shadows to break up the void. I _felt_ Vilkas' eyes on me, though I couldn't see him at all to confirm my hunch.

After a considerable pause, Vilkas' answer came, low and frustrated, almost like a growl in itself. "I can smell your heart beating in your chest," he rumbled, his tone one of regret. "Sometimes," he continued gravely, "when you are embarrassed, or frightened, and it quickens, the smell gets...stronger."

"Oh," my eyes widened in surprise as my face grew hot, to match the heat pouring off my escort. This was all getting a little too intimate. "Well...sorry about that," I stammered, hoping that would be the end of it, and wincing as my heart began to race again. There was no stopping it, and what was worse was _knowing_ that he could sense it.

"I could smell your fear tonight, while you were performing," he told me gruffly, ignoring my non-verbal reaction quite pointedly. "When you left us tonight, I expected it to recede. But it didn't. I tried to ignore it, believing it to be my mind and not my instincts tormenting me, and it grew even stronger. So I followed you," he owned simply.

I bit my bottom lip, remembering what I had seen in his eyes in the cavern, when he had been a beast. He hated that he could do, and sense, these things. What reason did I have to be embarrassed? It wasn't as though he was declaring himself to me.

"I'm sorry," I told him sadly, not sure of what else would suffice.

A disbelieving huff resounded from the Nord.

"I am," I insisted, my resolve to be more observant of their torment hardening.

"I know," he sighed. "That is not why I laugh."

"Then tell me why," I countered.

He didn't reply, and silence reigned between us as he led me on. After minutes of only more darkness, I sighted a silvery light ahead that my brain told me was moonlight. It was the exit!

Vilkas released me, and I had the notion that he had sensed my relief. While I would have to attempt to reign in my emotions around the Circle in future, I couldn't mask them now, nor stop myself from running the last few steps. I broke out from the crushing weight of the tunnel to gasp in great, deep breaths of the frigid night air. It was so cold and piercing that my throat burned, but I drunk it in desperately, blissfully, as though I had been parched. My calmness inched over me as I leaned back against the rock wall beside the opening, and stared up to the moons, forcing my eyes to adjust to their radiance.

 _I'm free._

Vilkas stepped out of the rock tunnel, and in the corner of my eye I saw him press the knob that Skjor had to open the sealed entrance. For the moment I was reluctant to turn my eyes away from the skies. The tuneless hymn of rock scraping rock sang around us, and the place I leaned vibrated slightly.

Once the grinding sound ceased, I turned to Vilkas, grasping my own arms against the stiff cold of night as a breeze whipped my hair, escaping its braid, across my face. The moonlight lit his pale body; his grim apprehension steadfastly back in place and his jaw locked. The light reflecting from the moons heightened the animalistic sheen to his eyes and rippled over the plains of his chest. He seemed an apparition, bared and brooding, and I wondered if now we were free of the oppressive tunnel, and the danger of the moment over, he might fade entirely.

His hands fell to the arms of my coat tied securely around his waist, holding it fast in what seemed to be insecurity; somewhat breaking the spell as he cleared his throat.

"What do we do now?" I asked him uncertainly.

Vilkas glanced from me, to the moons above, then back down to Jorrvaskr beyond. "Talk to Kodlak," he sighed; melancholy once more.

–

It should have come as no great surprise to me that we found both Kodlak and Farkas awake and alert in the living quarters. Both seemed tense; Kodlak sitting straight, his hands balled into fists on his knees, and Farkas pacing the flagstones beside him, pausing as we entered the hallway.

Vilkas sidestepped me, grumbling as he passed; "I need a bath."

Then he was gone, stepping into one of the nearby side hallways, and I was alone before the chasm of a hallway and the agitated men at the end of it.

"Brother?" Farkas called out in a concerned rumble, moving to go after him.

"Leave him," Kodlak extended an arm to the larger man, stilling his motion.

"He's injured-" the brother protested.

"Vilkas will come to us when he is revived," Kodlak cut him off evenly. "I suggest we hear what our shield-sister has to tell us, while we wait for him."

I swallowed nervously at his naming me thus, and my eyes settled on his frame. He looked just as he ever had; he was Kodlak; but I knew now that he was also a werewolf. As was the mountain of a Nord next to him. A primal force stilled me, urging me to turn, and leave, and forget I had ever heard of the Companions.

 _Ungrateful,_ logic berated me immediately, and I hastened forward. _Kodlak has shown you nothing but kindness and support, since you have ever known him. His curse does not change who he is to you._

To replace the fear, nerves arose as I folded my hands in front of me so I wouldn't fidget with them.

The pair watched me approach closely; Kodlak with a caution to his eyes that made me even more determined to express that I accepted this truth about them. My respect had not diminished; if anything, it was greater than before, as now I understood, in part, what they endured in silence.

Kodlak motioned toward the seat beside him as I drew to a halt; his voice accompanying the action as kind and steady as ever. "Please, Celeste. Make yourself comfortable."

Driven by an impulse that I had not anticipated, I shook my head, and instead leaned forward, wrapping my arms around Kodlak's broad shoulders, hugging him fiercely. He immediately tensed, and I gasped a tearless sob as I rested my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes and determinedly maintaining my hold.

"What happened?" I heard Farkas asking urgently. "What's wrong?"

Kodlak's arms encircled me gingerly, finally, as though concerned his grasp might crush me.

I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, trying to dispel a rising flood of tears, as I whispered, "I'm so sorry."

The Harbinger sighed; one of his hands patted my back comfortingly. "You are safe now, little dove."

"No, that's not what I mean," I managed, retreating from the embrace to meet Kodlak's saddened gaze. I maintained it, shaking my head for emphasis. "I'm sorry that I didn't realise what was wrong," I confirmed, taking a shuddering breath and standing tall to wipe the unspent tears from my eyes. "I have torn your family apart," I voiced, horrified as I realised it. I clenched my eyes closed with regret. "I will do everything in my power to make up for my selfishness, Harbinger," I vowed.

After a beat, Kodlak spoke up calmly. "Farkas, would you?"

"Sure."

Large, warm hands were on my shoulders, urging me forward and down, into the seat Kodlak had offered when I had first approached. Farkas released me, and I glanced up to the large man, my eyes flitting over his features, so similar to his brother, but for the gash that currently marred Vilkas' cheek.

"You will forgive me?" I asked Farkas.

Farkas frowned in confusion, and his eyes drifted to land on Kodlak for an explanation.

"There is nothing to forgive," Kodlak assured, drawing my attention back to him.

I turned, my sudden fit of remorse clutching fiercely about my chest.

"You forget, little dove; we did not wish to be exposed," he raised an eyebrow at me as his mouth curled into an amused half-smile.

I huffed a laugh at his smile, and I looked down to my hands as I did. The tightness within me unfurled a little.

My hands were filthy; the right more than the left, as it bore the dried, brown stains of Aela's blood.

"I don't get it," Farkas droned. In the corner of my eye, I noticed him sit in front of us, on the floor, crossing his legs as he looked between us; an expectant pupil, waiting to be enlightened.

I wondered that with their superior senses, he could not smell her blood on me, but perhaps her scent was being masked by my own; by the beating of my frantic heart, that Vilkas had made me aware of.

Kodlak was silent, and also expectant I felt, and I knew then that while it seemed he understood more from a single look than I could have ever voiced, he wanted to hear me say the words.

I raised my bloodied palm to Farkas slowly, watching him for signs of acknowledgement, but none came. He glanced between my hand and my eyes, his brow knotted in confusion.

"It's Aela's blood," I began quietly. "She and Skjor wanted to make me...one of you," I settled.

Farkas' eyes bulged out of his head, and he fearfully turned to Kodlak beside me. "Why would they do that?" he addressed the Harbinger.

Kodlak sighed sadly. "I can only presume at this time, so perhaps it is better that I say nothing. And Vilkas?" Kodlak turned his eyes to me. "He transformed?"

I confirmed with a single nod. "He saved me," I emphasised.

Farkas made an astonished noise and leapt to his feet. I glanced to him in time to see him turning at a run.

The regret in Kodlak's voice was plain. "Farkas, _peace_ ," he called to the departing brother; more a command than a suggestion.

Farkas turned back to us, his face grim. "He hasn't turned going close on a year. You two can talk," he glanced darkly between Kodlak and I. "It's what you're best at. My brother needs me."

With that, he turned again, and sprinted down the hallway, disappearing in a matter of seconds into the side hall that Vilkas had taken.

Kodlak didn't try to stop him this time. The Harbinger sat back, as though tired, or defeated, and lowered his eyes to the flagstones.

"Did our ancestors understand what torment their bargains might wreak in their quest for strength for generations to come?" he mumbled, then raised his eyes to me, considering for a moment, before adding a quiet; "I think not."

Understanding that he referred also to my own desire to obtain the fortitude to meet whatever being Dragonborn required, I acknowledged with a nod, and voiced what I was desperate to know. "What happens now?"

He sighed, his pensive inflections rising to meet his more regular, charitable tone when he asked; "To you?"

I shook my head. "To your family."

Kodlak's smile was sad, and, "We wait," was his simple beginning. "Aela and Skjor embrace their beast blood, so they will not at once understand the error of their judgement."

I forced myself to remain quiet, though I disagreed with Kodlak's assessment of their characters. He might have known them _far_ longer than I had, but he had not endured the hatred and violence that I had under them, nor heard Skjor's gloating declaration that by turning me, he would be punishing Kodlak, Vilkas and Farkas for denying their werewolf forms.

"In a day or two, once they have calmed down," Kodlak reasoned, unaware of my musings, "they will feel the shame of it. Then they will come home," he assured me, casting me a quick glance, beneath which I saw a stalwart promise. "And then, little dove, they will answer for what they have done."

–

Kodlak and I spoke for hours, and we saw no more of the brothers, or anyone else that night.

Eventually, overwhelmed with fatigue, he advised me to rest, and I left him to his writing; so potent was the beast's hold that they were never able to truly sleep. They could calm and deny the wolf through discipline and practise, but it allowed their minds and bodies no rest as they did so.

Rather than return to Breezehome, for I simply didn't wish to walk the dark streets by myself or ask meekly for someone to accompany me, I retired to the bed in the dormitory that Kodlak had offered me when I had first joined them.

I had washed my hands and face, scrubbing at the stain of blood on my skin, then sunk, utterly shattered, onto the scratchy furs that were laid over the lumpy mattress.

I lay awake for a time, staring at the ceiling and listening to the breathing and snores of my shield-siblings around me, hoping that the chorus, and knowing that I was not alone, might ease me into calmness, and allow _me_ a moment's rest.

 _You're alive,_ I thought, trying to appease my disquiet. Yes, I was alive, and safe, and had not been cast from the Companions for knowing their Circle's secret. Tomorrow morning, I could continue on, training with Farkas or Vilkas, and learning what I could in the time that I had left.

 _Three weeks,_ I reminded myself with an internal groan, and frowned. Three weeks and then, what? Walk away from the Companions, knowing that by doing so, I was condemning Kodlak, Farkas and Vilkas – poor Vilkas who had broken his vow to renounce the beast blood to _save_ me – to weeks, months, perhaps years of torment while they searched for a cure that Kodlak wasn't positive existed?

I longed to help them – _properly_ help them, not only with my music as an interim measure, but to assist in locating this rumoured cure that Kodlak had briefly spoken of. If it could be found, I could leave them, knowing that I was not abandoning them to the beasts.

I cursed, turning onto my side, frustrated by my options, or lack thereof.

 _Stay, then, and help them if you believe you can_ , I insisted, my thoughts at war with one another. _If the Greybeards need you sooner, they will call for you again,_ I reasoned, uncertain if this would be the case, but willing to make myself believe it would be so, to have my own way.

Sleep eventually took hold of me, but I was restless, and before dawn I gave up and rose, thinking that I might as well do something productive with my time.

I left the dormitory and purposefully walked down the hallway. Kodlak was still where I had left him, and still writing.

I knew that he would have heard, or sensed my approach; perhaps even sensed that I had not been able to sleep. But he didn't show it, so practised he was at hiding what he was.

I sat down in the chair I had occupied hours earlier, without waiting for his invitation for the first time.

"Unable to sleep?" he asked, his eyes still on his handiwork before him and his pen still scrawling his tiny, careful script.

I shook my head; my eyes flickering to his journal curiously before I drew them back up to his face, determined not to pry into his personal secrets any more than I already unwittingly had. "Would you tell me more about this cure?" I asked in a low voice. Despite nobody else being awake at this hour, I knew that discretion had to be maintained. "Perhaps a fresh set of eyes will help you to unravel it."

Kodlak's shining eyes finally left his journal, and turned upon me with a patient look edged in doubt. He sighed, set down his pen, and closed the book before him again.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but it is not your burden to bear, Celeste-"

"Please, Harbinger, let me," I cut him off earnestly, reaching for one of his hands now that they were freed of book and pen, and clutching the large, warm, gnarled appendage in both of my own. When he immediately tensed, I almost withdrew at once, but a thought flitted through my mind, assuring me that I had done right, and that Kodlak simply was not used to physical contact, so determined he was to give his wolf no stimuli to emerge.

"Oh. Oh no," my eyes widened in realisation. "I make it more difficult for you, and Farkas and Vilkas, don't I?" I asked, loosening my grasp but not letting go, attempting to swallow the guilt back within me.

Kodlak shook his head, lowering his eyes and chuckling in the way that he did when I spoke to him, as his free hand crossed in front of him and rested on top of mine. "Quite the contrary," he raised his shining eyes, and there was amusement in them. "You may put your mind at ease, on that account."

That _was_ a relief. I smiled, and we released each other's hands; the air growing perceptibly more comfortable, and at once I was glad that I had risen. "Then tell me, please?" I asked again. "I will sing for you and the twins every night if you believe it is all I can do to help," I vowed. "But, if there is a chance I might be able to help with the permanent solution, is it not worth telling me of it?"

Kodlak cast me a paternal glance; full of dubiety again, I regretfully noted. "I would not distract you from your _own_ vows, Celeste. You are needed elsewhere," he prompted me carefully.

"Damn the Greybeards," I hissed, waving my hand dismissively and sitting forward on the edge of my seat. "I have entered into no agreement with them. I will never go to them, until you are cured," I insisted. "I cannot leave you to struggle through it on your own if my being here might be of some assistance."

Kodlak sighed, and I felt another counter argument on its way.

I spoke again before it could be voiced, determined to be heard, and believed. "Either I am a Companion, or I am not," I reminded Kodlak of his words to me, what had only been a week ago, but felt like a course of many months. I watched him carefully, worried suddenly that this might be a point on which he would cast me from their hall; not for the sake of what had occurred in the underforge, but in order to push me back, even unprepared as I was, onto the path that destiny demanded I take.

I lowered my head, out of respect, and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady my next, which then formed and flowed out of me effortlessly, steeling my resolve. "I understand what you told me now, Harbinger. As you intimated yourself on the night that you welcomed me into your ranks; I now choose to remain with you, and vow that I shall, for as long as it takes to free you of this curse you are under. I will not abandon you to Hircine's hunting grounds. I _am_ a Companion."

After a pause, I felt Kodlak's large hand rest on top of my head, and felt the old man's shuddering breath, before he broke the silence.

"That you are," he agreed in a subdued tone.

* * *

 _A/n: so gratified by the response to last chapter! Thank you :)  
Cake-san, your emojis made me laugh - I just wanted to tell you that the commissioned armour will appear, but for the moment the Jarl is leaving Celeste alone to do what she believes she must (until...well, you'll see)._


	24. Rites of Passage

_Chapter 24: Rites of Passage_

Thus truly began my time with a people I would consider a family, no matter how my path wove in and out of theirs over the years to come.

Kodlak told me what he knew of the curse, and at each additional discourse that we shared, he revealed a little more to me. His knowledge of the supernatural surpassed what I had expected, given his reticence on the subject, but once I had been brought up to speed regarding the witches of Glenmoril and Kodlak's research into the severing of one's body from its invading lycan spirit, he went on to tell me about the bane of the Companion's existence, hindering their progress at attaining what they required to bring an end to their internal torment; the Silver Hand.

It had been the Silver Hand who had injured Farkas on the twins journey to retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad (which it eventuated was an ancient battle-axe, sacred to the Companions and a critical component of the exorcisms they wished to conduct). The fragment had been laid as bait; Vilkas had become trapped, Farkas had been cornered. He had shifted into a werewolf as a last resort, breaking his own oath to refrain from letting the beast take hold of his frame, but it had been a move that had saved their lives.

The Silver Hand were an organisation of werewolf hunters. When Kodlak first spoke of them, I assumed that they were following a holy mandate on the same vein as the Vigilants of Stendarr, but as he explained their methods; of which capture and torture seemed to rank higher than eradication, my thoughts darkened, until I came to think of them as nothing more than a cruel rabble of bandits who thrived on oppressing that which they perceived to be different.

As to the cure for lycanthropy, Kodlak advised me that until Wuuthrad could be reassembled, and the bolt hole of the Glenmoril witches uncovered, there was simply nothing any of us could do to further its progress. He bade me wait, and assured me that he would let me know the moment he believed I might be able to assist them.

Aela and Skjor remained absent from the warmth and camaraderie of the mead hall. Two days lapsed with no word of their whereabouts, at which point in time Kodlak sent Farkas out to locate them.

He told me privately at one of our night time vigils, once the larger brother had departed, that the task was better suited to Vilkas, for as Kodlak's second in the hierarchy observed by the wolves, Vilkas could ultimately order their return if they opposed him, and they would have to obey. But Vilkas was still bearing the effects of his recent transformation, after abstaining for such a time, and Kodlak told me that he did not wish to let the man out of his sights, until he could be certain that he had recovered his calm.

That left only Vilkas to train me by day; a task which he had taken upon himself even before Farkas had left. If I had not known better, I would have wondered if he did it for selfish reasons; perhaps reluctant to leave my side, in case that which soothed the beast be snatched away from him again when his back was turned. I _did_ know better of the professional Vilkas, however, and saw his presence for what it was; he considered it the Circle's duty to teach me to defend myself adequately, and after all we had witnessed and said in the underforge, he would ensure I did. It was evident in the way that he pushed me to work beyond the realm of comfort, but never to the point of breaking; making me give my all to the task at hand.

The morning after that fateful night, once the sun had broached Whiterun's walls for well over an hour, I had gone to Breezehome briefly to change and make small talk with Lydia, making light of everything and advising her that my performance had carried on for so long that I had opted to sleep in the dorm. I hated lying to her, but spun what story I had to, to protect the secret I now bore. It was vital that none came to learn of the truth about the Circle, or they would be run out of town, if the Silver Hand didn't descend on Jorrvaskr first.

I had then returned to the training yard with my bow clutched firmly in my hands, ready to shoot targets, and attempt to let go of my lingering anxiety.

Vilkas had other plans for me, it seemed. He met me, rising from the step on the verandah where he had sat waiting, with a pair of short training swords in his hands, similar to those I had seen Farkas and Ria training with at times.

I glanced up to him, my brows furrowing when I noticed the swords. "Good morning, Vilkas," it was almost a question.

He nodded a greeting, but didn't verbally return it. "You can put your bow away for now," he confirmed my suspicions, passing me the handle of one of the short swords. "You can hit a stationary target well enough. This morning we're going to work on your arm, try and build up some muscle in those limp, stringy things," he tried to banter with me, waving at my arms, but his voice felt slightly mechanical, as though he lacked the heart or will to jest.

His attempt at lightness advised me that he did not wish to talk of the previous night. I played along, taking his lead for both our sakes. "I'll have you know, the soul of a dragon flows through these _limp, stringy things_ ," I placed my bow on one of the tables, and returned to him, frowning down at the sword in my grasp and wondering what I was supposed to do with it. I doubted I could ever use such a thing in actual _battle_ , but then, why would anyone ever wish to be so close to an attacker for it to be needed?

"Oho – come then, little dragon," he stepped down to the centre of the courtyard, turning back to me with a smirk on his face and a tormented melancholy in his eyes. "Teach me how a wyrm strikes with steel."

"That is a trap," I smirked back, descending the verandah to stand before him; my sword lowered. "You know as well as I that dragons can't lift steel; they can only be caged by it."

A flash of compassion flitted through his silvery depths. "But I would wager they can be taught, if needs must," he sighed, taking a step forward, to fall into a stance beside me. He raised his training sword before him with one hand; our wordplay evidently at its close. He glanced across his shoulder and down to me, suddenly all business. "Mirror what I do."

I nodded, looking to his feet and hands and adjusting my own so that I was standing similarly.

He relaxed his stance, but told me to hold mine, and stepped back to assess what I had come up with.

I held, my eyes trained forward on the dummies and targets against the wall. I made myself measure my breaths, so I wouldn't move about too much.

After he'd walked around me, ducking to check the position of each limb critically, he stepped in front of me and asked, "Do you think you could hold that stance for long?"

"I'm not sure," I evaded, uncertain what manner of answer was expected of me. "Do you think I might, as someone with experience in such things?"

Vilkas crossed his brows, his eyes falling to my sword arm, which trembled a little from the weight I was holding out in front of me. His gaze drifted back to me; he raised a single eyebrow.

"Do you feel strong, and steady?" he tried a different question.

My arm began to ache, and I wondered with some exasperation why he was asking me such questions when he knew I had _no_ idea of how to properly wield a sword. Of _course_ I didn't feel strong.

I made myself answer him, since he _was_ my teacher. "I do not," I admitted quietly.

"What feels wrong?" he prompted at once.

"The sword feels too heavy, to start," I said in a rush.

"And your balance?" he continued on swiftly, stepping back another step and crossing his arms, his critical eyes glancing over my feet.

I shook my head, looking down to my boots for myself, in case my answer was writ there. "I don't know."

Two slow steps and he was beside me, pressing the toe of his boot into the back of my knee, exerting barely any force. Naturally, it didn't take much to make me pitch forward, and I lowered my sword arm, reaching out wide to regain my balance.

"How about now?" he asked flatly.

Righting myself, I shot him a dark look, and again shook my head. "Will you teach me the right way to stand?"

Vilkas smirked and uncrossed his arms, turning the handle of his short sword and clasping his fingers around it deftly; repositioning his feet into the stance he had previously shown me. I observed his ease and confidence with the weapon with a smattering of envy snaking through me.

He raised his arm and cast me another glance. "This is the stance that I take when I am using a short sword."

I moved to mirror his pose again.

"But my frame is different to yours," his addition stopped me, and I watched him instead, as he effortlessly swung the blade a few times, making dull whooshing noises in the air. "My centre is higher; my legs are longer. My arms are accustomed to lifting and swinging greatswords that weigh as much as you do."

I took a deep breath as I observed him, realising finally that he was trying to teach me something more than a starting position; a theory behind the practise. "You want me to work out what's comfortable for me?" I guessed.

He nodded, and stopped swinging the blade, standing tall; another flash of amusement crossed his features, and the shallow cut on his cheek stretched as he smiled. "Quick as a whip," he intoned, lowering the sword and relaxing his posture.

I rolled my eyes, uncertain if he was making fun of me or not, and shifted my feet so they were in the previous position Vilkas had shown me. I closed my eyes, and _thought_ about how they felt. They were too far apart, for one; I shifted them in closer. A push from either my front or back would overbalance me, so I dipped a little, bending my knees slightly, so that my feet felt more firmly rooted to the ground.

With a deep breath, I shifted my awareness up my body, turning by the hip a smidgen, rolling my shoulders until they fell into a comfortable place. I raised my arm, disheartened that the muscles ached almost immediately from the weight of my sword, and opened my eyes.

I turned only my head to regard Vilkas, so I wouldn't lose my stance. He was standing back and watching my progress with a faraway expression obscuring his features, causing him to scowl.

I knew at once that he was thinking about the previous night, and cleared my throat to get his attention. "Are there no lighter swords that I could begin with?" I asked.

He shook his head in reply, at the same time waking from his memories, for his gaze cleared at once. He stepped closer, walking around me to assess the stance I had settled into. When he stopped before me this time, he ducked down to my level and reached out; his large hands falling to my hips. He eased them forward a little; straightening my back in the process.

"Thank you," I murmured, as his hands fell and he retreated from my space.

He was stern again, and nodded to my sword. "What are you going to do about that, then?"

My eyes fell to the weapon; as long and wide as my arm; both blade edges dulled to thick bluntness. I grimaced at it, recalling that Hadvar had favoured a short sword as he'd battled our way out of Helgen Keep. I'd stayed hidden while he had fought, mostly, but during those times I had caught sight of the grisly action, I had been too tense over whether or not he would prevail to take note of his form.

 _It doesn't matter what Hadvar did,_ I reminded myself of the lesson Vilkas was attempting to teach me. _What feels right for you?_

 _More support_ was the immediate answer that my brain supplied, so I raised my other hand, and fastened it over the hand already wrapped around the practise sword's handle. My arm steadied at once, given the extra assistance.

"Very good," Vilkas actually _praised_ me. "Now, you are listening to _your_ needs," he stepped in front of me again and raised his practise sword, albeit with only one hand, out toward me. "What difference does it make to a sword if you wield it with one hand or two? None. What is the old adage?" he asked me, with a quirk to his tone that I caught as an awkward kind of amusement. "It is not the size that matters, but how you use what you have been given?"

I spluttered a laugh at the analogy, particularly at it coming from the serious Vilkas, whose frame was smaller than that of his twin. My eyes travelled from the tip of his sword, up to his face, and it pleased me to see that the furrows in his brow had smoothed out; his grimace was gone, and he actually seemed to be enjoying our training session. Perhaps he _was_ here for his own benefit as much as mine? Perhaps, as with my nightly performances, training me was the type of distraction that he needed in the light of day, to drive away the demon.

I smiled automatically at the change in him, and felt stronger in myself. It was a relief to _see_ that I was not a burden.

"Now, we can begin," he added, with a barely perceptible incline of his head that bore a challenge that I felt might actually be able to meet.

–

Vilkas worked me each day from dawn til dusk, giving me fifteen minute reprieves here and there to take some food and water, or while he saw to business.

With Aela and Skjor missing, and Farkas now away seeking them, the majority of the Circle's tasks fell on Vilkas' broad shoulders, but he bore it without a trace of enmity. Every couple of hours a civilian would approach, or a courier would arrive with a letter, asking for assistance and handing him a bag of gold. Once departed, he would log the job and payment in the 'accounts' book I had seen him reading at breakfast the morning after I had first played for them. In the afternoons, other Companions occasionally returned from their jobs, giving Vilkas a verbal, casual report regarding the outcome, and asking for their cut of the pay. Even more occasionally, one of them would return with a book or scroll, and Vilkas would pay them and send them in to Kodlak. I had to assume that the Harbinger had sent them to retrieve something pertaining to his research for a cure, though wondered how the Circle had managed to keep the details of what they were attempting to do from the as yet unenlightened ranks.

I had a feeling that Vilkas _liked_ to be deferred to, and while he was busy, and distracted, Kodlak let him take control of the day to day proceedings. The Harbinger spent his days and nights researching, his nose buried in books to further his understanding of their curse, and documenting all that he considered to be relevant in his journal, as a guide, so that when the time came to act, they were prepared.

As for my occupation, the difference between learning to shoot at targets and learning to wield a sword was literally staggering. Vilkas insisted that I not lose what I had already learned with the bow, so he would palm me a handful of arrows as the sun inched toward the horizon each day, and tell me that I could leave once each had landed in the centre circle. Thankfully, I'd never had to remain long past sundown, and was surprisingly pleased to think that perhaps using a bow might someday come as naturally to me as playing the lute did.

When it came to short range training, I was not so pleased with my progress. My muscles protested against every twist and turn while Vilkas taught me the slow, dance-like forms, and begged me to stop at every clang and clash of our swords when he instructed me to practise fighting against him.

My night routine remained as it had from the start of my time with them, and for the moment I didn't have to worry about angering anyone with my music. After loping home and taking a brief dinner with Lydia and Lucia each night, to be sure that I saw them sometimes, I would peel myself out of my training garb, and prepare to take the stage. I looked forward to my nights with the Companions, as in the role of a bard, I felt at my most useful.

Some nights after my performance, if I was weary, I would retire to the dormitory, and others, when I felt more alert, I would retreat to the living area and spend time with Kodlak. I loved listening to him speak as much as he seemed to enjoy my singing; he had an enigmatic, intelligent, sonorous voice.

I'd sit and listen, learning what he had discovered that day, if anything; hear stories of his past, when he had been a bodyguard for a fancy, pompous Lord in Hammerfell. We'd occasionally discuss the effectiveness of a particular song I had performed that night against the inner beast, though generally he was reluctant to acknowledge the creature lurking within's hold so directly. Occasionally, we would talk about my childhood, when Kodlak asked a question here and there. I never brought my past up to him, but was not opposed to sharing what the Harbinger wished to know about me, now that I was one of them.

On the rare night that I returned to my bed at Breezehome, Vilkas would accompany me to the front door. I had the notion that Kodlak had requested the service of him, though I had never asked either of them to provide me an escort. But I was grateful for his presence. I knew it would take some time for me to become comfortable walking alone through the streets at night again, even with Skjor and Aela disappeared.

So rigorous was my new training routine that it was a whole week after I had discovered that the Circle were werewolves that I found the time to write Hadvar my reply letter.

I had spent in total two productive, but strange weeks in the company of the Companions, though given the long hours I kept with them, it felt like much, much longer. I no longer panicked at the pace of my progress, for I had meant it when I had told Kodlak that I would remain with them until they were cured. At some point, I knew that I would need to explain this decision to the Jarl, but I hadn't figured out what I could tell him to account for it, yet, as telling him about the primary residents of Jorrvaskr being werewolves and that I had vowed to assist them cure their curse was out of the question.

The sun had sunk minutes ago, and having fired the required arrows into the target, I took my leave of my teacher to prepare for the evening's entertainments. Night would not take her true hold of the city for another hour, or so, and the streets were still busy enough that I didn't feel uncomfortable traversing them for myself.

I unlocked the door to Breezehome, but no hullos met my entrance for once; I found it empty of my friends. A scrawled note on the kitchen table told me that the pair had been invited to the Valentia's for dinner. I knew, from my nightly chats with them, that Lucia and Mila Valentia were fast becoming essential to each other's company and happiness.

Finding myself alone for the first time in a while, I went straight to my room and cleaned up as best I could without a bath to soak in. There were baths in Jorrvaskr that I was at liberty to use, but for those outside of the Circle they were in a shared, public bathroom, and I did not feel _that_ comfortable with my shield-siblings yet. I had only visited the facilities in the dead of night twice, after my colleagues were asleep. As Circle members, Kodlak and Vilkas could request a bath be brought to them, so I didn't have to worry about those restless souls walking in on me.

Tonight I dressed simply in a creamy white undertunic and a straight blue apron-dress, for I was to perform in the mead hall and wouldn't need to account for exposure to the elements. The blue of the dress reminded me of the sea, so I accessorised with the necklace Alvor had made that had the swirling etchings on the pendant, reminiscent of the ocean swells.

I unraveled my hair from its braid and stared at my bookshelf; not really seeing the bound titles as I loosened the curls and unsnarled where they caught.

Thinking of the ocean sent my meanderings to the Sea of Ghosts, which I had been able to see for most of my childhood from my bedroom in Proudspire, and then, as tended to happen when I allowed my mind to wander, I found myself wishing to know where Hadvar was at that moment. I could imagine him taking his dinner with his colleagues around a fire pit, surrounded by thick snow as twilight faded and the stars brightened above. Was his base camp anywhere near the Sea of Ghosts? Perhaps he was standing on the border of his garrison, a warmed mead in his hand, looking out over the rippling water to the horizon - and wondering how I fared?

I sighed, and as silly as I felt my girlish musings were, they still gave me cause to pensively smile. Warmed by the idea of reaching out to him, I collected my writing materials and descended to the kitchen table to answer his letter by the light and warmth of the lonely hearth.

As soon as I had settled myself, the words poured out of me as though they had been prepared in my mind for days, just waiting to be set free by my pen.

 _Dear Hadvar,_ I began.

 _Night is descending and I am for a rare moment, myself, whole and alone, by the fire in Breezehome. Lydia and Lucia are out, visiting friends, and soon I will leave too, bound for Jorrvaskr as Celeste the bard, leaving Celeste the striving warrior in training behind me._

 _How do you fare in your snowy northern camp? It is an interesting task the Legion have put you to, and I wonder why they are concerning contracted soldiers with a task usually undertaken by treasure hunters and grave robbers. Dare I ask how your race to find the artefact before the Stormcloaks goes, or would that be restricted?_

I frowned at my words as I read them through; they sounded snippy. I worked to resolve it.

 _I have been on the receiving end of both draugr and Stormcloak attacks, so you must excuse my tension. I fear for you, and not because you aren't entirely capable of facing both, but because I loathe to acknowledge that anybody or anything is endeavouring to bring you harm._

 _Let's not talk of battle. Tell me of the Pale? Is it as beautiful as they say? My mind conjures images of plush snow on a rocky, ragged coastline and murky waters expanding ever-northward. You stand there, in my mind's eye, in your armour and a cloak to stave off the extreme chill, with your face turned east as Masser rises beyond._

 _You must correct me where I am wrong, or the bard in me will write your story for myself._

I sat back, satisfied that by this point, he would be smiling. I wrote on:

 _I regret to inform you that no, I have_ _ **not**_ _achieved any more accolades. My duties as Thane amount to zero. Perhaps, as you said, the Jarl was merely collecting me before the buzzards descended. I am not offended if that is his reason; far from it. I am grateful. Jarl Balgruuf's determined neutrality in all matters relating to the war lend me alibi to turn down either army, should they approach me. Neither have, by the way, but it has only been a fortnight since I, and those at the watchtower, learned what I am. For now, I am as happy and safe as any other citizen of Whiterun._

Except for the two werewolves who tried to kill you, I reminded myself darkly.

I sat back, staring at my scrawl and wondering how I could possibly talk of the Companions without drifting anywhere near _the Incident_ and what it had revealed. I trusted Hadvar, but I did not want to put to paper that which might be intercepted and read by other eyes. And surely, the truth would only worry him further, and he did not deserve that.

I wrote on, and found a path:

 _Training with the Companions is hard, but I know that their efforts make me stronger. They started me on sword training this week - which I am tremendously useless at - but my teacher has told me it will become easier as I learn to trust myself._ _I suppose I can liken training my body for battle to training my hands and voice for performances, if I squint at the disciplines, though I am under no illusion of which I was born to do._

At this, I found myself at a loss for what to say. I didn't want to prattle on about the sky again, as I had in my last, but my mind kept centring on matters which I was not at liberty to divulge. With a jolt, I realised that Hadvar must have felt the same way, when trying to decide what he could and couldn't tell me of the Legion's activities.

This made me laugh; we longed to talk but were unable to write much of what we experienced, in case it fell into the wrong hands.

I disliked being untruthful with him, so I changed the subject entirely.

 _I propose we carry on as we might if we lived in the same city, and get to know one another through our letters. Don't laugh at me like I know you are!_

Because I knew he _would_ laugh at this, just as he had when I had asked his surname; it was so baffling to remember that we were barely acquainted.

 _While you held me close on the bridge, I longed to have more time so I might know you better. It's the reason I proposed we write to one another, so that distance might not sever us from whatever we formed over that strange and wonderful twoday, and so when next we meet, it shall not be as two strangers who once shared a kiss, but as longstanding, firm friends, ready to see where our life's adventures lead us next._

I wanted to groan aloud – it was far too wordy – not to mention presumptuous and exposing. I tried to assure myself that he would understand and see that beyond the flowery phrases, I was simply nervous to ask him to write of what would naturally occur during any conventional courtship. If he had lived in Whiterun - if there was no war - I would have already learned all about his life, his family, his goals, his likes and dislikes, and so on.

Was their protocol surrounding a situation such as ours? I had no idea, but then, I had never felt about anyone the way that I did about Hadvar, either. It was absurd to think that I had known my shield-siblings for _much_ longer than I had known Hadvar; had spent day after day in their acquaintance and now knew many of their secrets and traits, as they did mine. But despite the allure of a strong, patient, broody warrior with a dark secret to hide, and despite admitting that, again traditionally, the twins were _quite_ good looking once you got past their war paint, none of my shield-siblings made my heart flutter and sing in the way that my memories and thoughts of Hadvar did.

Shuddering a breath to steady myself as I pushed my hair back over my shoulder, I got back to my task at hand.

 _So. Shall we regale one another with the stories of our childhoods? Or perhaps smaller - are there questions you have of my past, which I might answer, to build a better picture of who I am?_

Deciding that I could write no more until I knew whether or not I had made a _complete_ fool out of myself, I signed off. Hadvar could ask the first question, if he replied and consented to the whole...question and answer thing.

 _I leave the choice to you. If you don't like the idea, forget I mentioned it, and write of whatever you choose, for I would rather receive word of anything from you than nothing at all._

 _My time is up, and I go now to Jorrvaskr to play and sing for those who have (generally) accepted me as one of their own._

 _Write again when you can, and ask what you would know before we meet again; for I am_ _ **certain**_ _that some day we shall._

 _Celeste_

I folded the letter and stuffed it into my coat pocket before I could throw the papers into the fire (Tilma had returned the garment to me days ago, informing me she'd washed it; Vilkas must have passed it to her). I would hand it to the coachman tomorrow morning.

 _And when we meet again,_ I posed?

We may have promised each other nothing except that we would write, but we had not even attempted to mask our longing or the sense of steady, building devotion. When we next met...I idled, staring at the flames writhing in the hearth, recalling the grasp of Hadvar's hands and press of his body to mine as we had kissed.

My cheeks flamed and my belly twisted; at once, I turned away and childishly blamed both hunger and my proximity to the hearth for the heat to my cheeks. I grabbed an apple and took up my lute, then left Breezehome. I ran along the emptying cobbled streets, drinking in the indigo sky and the glittering stars as the smells of Whiterun drifted on the crisp evening breeze; wood fire, roasted meat, and a brief tang of the wildflowers that bloomed on the plains beyond the wall.

It might be _years_ before we were able to meet again, I mused sadly. And by then, Divines knew who we would be, or what we would want of each other.

–

When I entered Jorrvaskr at a run, I stilled in the entryway. There was no banter, no brawling, no laughing – no _people._ But there was food and drink aplenty – a veritable feast, every surface of the u-shaped tables covered in platters of grilled meats and vegetables, breads and cheeses, boiled fruit treats and cauldrons of stew, and bottle after bottle of mead, ale and wine.

I frowned, wondering where they all were. Had I forgotten that I was to perform outside tonight? I shrugged, making my way across the mead hall and past the mouth-watering smells, to exit the other side. Perhaps I could coax everybody back inside, to the food, so I wouldn't freeze in my lighter atire.

The door opened; I peered out, trying to shield myself from the wind. They _were_ gathered in the courtyard, and there _was_ a bonfire lit, but there were still no sounds of merrymaking to speak of. Those that were speaking were quiet; so quiet that I couldn't make out more than a murmur of conversation. Crossing my brows in confusion, I stepped outside to observe them better.

My shield siblings, my teacher and my Harbinger were standing around the pyramidal blaze at regular intervals, some holding a flaming torch of their own to add to the light of the blaze.

Again, I stilled, my eyes widening at the scene before me. What was this? Had somebody died?

The door clicked shut, and those nearest the verandah turned at the sound; Njada, Athis and Ria. Njada regarded me with her usual vaguely unimpressed stare, but both Athis and Ria's faces lit up upon sighting me.

"She's here," the young Imperial woman told the others warmly; her eyes and smile still trained on me. The strains of conversation died down.

"Good," came Kodlak's voice directly, loud and genial. Those standing around the bonfire parted, to let the Harbinger ascend the steps to me. He looked as he always looked, with grizzled beard and hair, wearing his steel armour with its tiny carved wolf at the throat of the chest piece, but something about his manner made him seem taller and more commanding than usual. I watched him closely, a sharp warning at this unusual ambush flaring within me.

His gleaming eyes were twinkling as he approached, however, so I smothered the caution hastily by smiling up to him, and allowing myself to be consoled by his warm, familiar ease. He would smell if I feared them, and it was plain that nothing sinister was afoot; merely something unanticipated.

Kodlak held his hand out to me. "Before we become slaves to your coos tonight, little dove, we have some business to attend to," he told me, in a low voice filled with contentment. "I apologise for not having initiated you officially earlier," he added more quietly, apparently so that the others would not hear. "But my mind has been occupied of late, and it was not until this morning that Vilkas recalled you had not been given the honour and welcome that you have earned."

I gave him my hand and let him lead me down to my colleagues. Initiation? Into the _Companions_? Was I not already a Companion? Was anything expected of me during this ceremony?

Kodlak released my hand and positioned me close to the bonfire, then returned to his post. I turned, so the blaze was at my back, to face the Harbinger; my eyes flickering to Vilkas, by his side. My teacher looked as straight-faced as ever, but I could see smug amusement in his eyes, and understood; he _had_ suggested this; he'd _known_ this was going to happen tonight, and had said nothing to warn me, deliberately.

I shot him a narrow-eyed look at his secrecy, but said nothing, for the air felt too solemn, and turned my attention back to Kodlak. He had started speaking. He addressed the Companions and welcomed me into their number, talking briefly of how I had proven my forbearance, courage, and loyalty. He asked who would speak for me; Vilkas assented, stepping forward, and met my expectant glance with a faint smirk.

They ran through what sounded like rehearsed words spoken again and again over the course of time; perhaps they had been said to each and every one of my colleagues circling me, at similar initiations. Knowing this didn't serve to lessen the impact of those words; rather, it meant somehow more to me to be welcomed into their ranks, officially, in the same manner that those with strength of arm and steel had been.

The ceremony was short, closing with a summary from Kodlak where he talked of mountains echoing the beat of our now unified hearts, then each of the Companions around me intoned a closing, somewhat final, "It shall be so."

It was over; my shield-siblings stepped from their places, some retreating to Jorrvaskr with barely a smile, and others coming forward to meet me, with words of congratulations and grins. Nothing had been expected of me other than to stand within their circle and hear their practised words.

I met their smiles and hugs and handshakes, cheered to receive them, and once the lower-ranked Companions had returned to the mead hall; Torvar calling out (drunkenly, as usual) for me to hurry up and get inside so we could begin celebrating, the attending, and only two members of the Circle present approached me.

Genuinely moved by the gesture they had devised, I gave Kodlak and Vilkas an honest, appreciative smile as they closed the space between us. The ceremony hadn't been expected, or required. They could have foregone it entirely and I would have been none the wiser.

"There," Kodlak inclined his head toward me in a shallow bow. "As it should be," was his quiet, simple greeting.

The pride in his eyes made my own fill with hot tears, and I shot forward, throwing my arms around him. "Thank you!" I whispered to him fiercely.

The Harbinger laughed at my reaction, gently returning my hug briefly before withdrawing from the embrace, both of his hands landing on my shoulders. "No tears, now, Celeste," he instructed. "I still expect to enjoy several hours of music produced by you tonight."

I laughed at him in reply, and nodded earnestly, my tears scattering, unshed. "It would take more than a raging flood to stop me from fulfilling my duty to you, Harbinger."

With a smile, under which I saw his relief, he told me he would see me inside, and departed for the mead hall.

That left only Vilkas before me now, standing back from my exchange with Kodlak; his arms crossed but his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. His eyes were still too smug for my liking.

I stepped forward to meet him. "You planned this," I accused, trying not to laugh as I pushed against his arm; the shove had no effect on the wall of muscle. "Why didn't you say something?"

His smile widened as he uncrossed his arms; the rare expression making him seem younger. He settled a hand on my shoulder. "You have been working hard, day _and_ night," he told me, ignoring my question, but then, I hadn't really needed an answer. "And," he added, with a shake of his head and a chuckle – another _very_ un-Vilkas like reaction, "you have managed to make yourself essential to several of us," he raised his head again, and I saw pride in his silvery depths, too. "It was time for you to be recognised."

I smiled, and offered him a more sober, "Thank you."

His hand fell back to his side as he half shrugged. "Given that you have decided to stay with us for longer than a month," he continued, in a less sentimental tone. "It seemed wrong to exclude you from the tradition."

Nodding my thanks this time, I raised my hands to my arms, shivering as a stiff, icy breeze swept over the walls and pushed straight through me.

Vilkas seemed unaffected by the temperature, as usual, but he noted my discomfort. "Come on, shield-sister. Let's get inside, to the feast. We have a _long_ night ahead of us," he added, with a bit of a sighing laugh.

Hastening up the steps to the verandah, I agreed. "Yes," I posed thoughtfully, though bit the side of my cheek to hide my amusement; my anticipation of a celebration making my chest flutter with excitement, in understanding that the feast I had seen within was for _me_. "I'm very much looking forward to your – what was it?" I cast him a glance, raising an eyebrow. "Song in triumph as the others revel in my stories? You never told me you could sing, Vilkas."

He barked an unimpressed laugh, and urged me onward. "Pray that I am never drunk enough to _honour_ you in _that_ way," he said in a flat, droll tone.

* * *

 _A/n: thanks as ever for the encouragement and reviews! A bit of an exposition-y chapter setting up for some more action - hope it isn't too boring given the pace of the previous few._


	25. A Place in the Pack

_Chapter 25: A Place in the Pack_

The initiation feast carried on well into the night, and my performance adopted a more casual air than it ever had in the past. Rather than retreating to my usual out of the way table at the end of the mead hall, I had been drawn into the centre of the room and placed in a chair at the main table as soon as Vilkas and I had entered Jorrvaskr. It was from this seat that I had talked and laughed with my new family over a meal, and then told stories and sung songs.

Eventually, the mead hall had begun to empty as the Companions had drifted, or staggered, to the living quarters. Kodlak had moved closer to my seat, and I could see that it was his intention to listen, not speak. I took on my regular style of program, playing one song continually after the other. By way of thanking him for his trust in me, I performed all of the songs that he had, at one time or another, told me had helped him the most.

Vilkas remained as well, as I knew he would, though he stayed at the end of one of the tables, stooped down and talking in a low voice to Njada while the woman finished her ale. She had returned with a scroll of paper that I had overheard was a map for Kodlak that afternoon, and from the snatches of their conversation that I caught between my strains now, it sounded like Vilkas was pressing her for a more inclusive report than that which she had given when she had come for her pay.

Once Vilkas had let Njada retire, only the two men of the Circle remained as my audience. While I felt a little tired, the air grew more comfortable after Njada had departed, so I opted to remain for a few songs more.

Vilkas shifted to Kodlak's side, taking a seat and leaning close to him, murmuring; "Njada persuaded an orichalcum miner she met at an inn in Falkreath draw your map."

I perked my ears while I continued to pluck out the instrumental number I had been performing; grateful that my hands knew the forms so well that I didn't have to focus much of my attention on it.

"Persuaded?" Kodlak sighed wearily, speaking in a voice as low and quiet as Vilkas'.

Vilkas pressed on; there was no need to discuss what Njada considered to be an appropriate form of persuasion when she wanted something. "He told her that he'd just left his contract at a mine called Bilegulch, owing to a couple of his peers being lured away in the night by hagravens."

Kodlak seemed to consider this for a time, then shook his head, conceding, "That is not usual hagraven behaviour."

"No, it isn't," Vilkas drawled, in a tone that advised that there was still more to tell. "One of those who'd been lured away turned up in the Falkreath dungeons a few days ago. He is being held for tearing a little girl to pieces," he spat the last through clenched teeth.

"What?" I stopped playing; the blood draining from my face. I hazarded a glance to the pair.

Neither Vilkas nor Kodlak were surprised I had been listening in; they had been speaking in low voices so their conversation would not drown out my songs, not because they did not wish me to hear what was being said. It had often been this way of an evening, when Vilkas had opted to join Kodlak and I at his writing desk in the living quarters, rather than retreat to his room and quiet solitude. On those nights, I would eventually fall into playing for them both, and the pair would talk in low, serious voices that drifted underneath the notes, masking what they were saying from any of the ranks that might happen to be restless that night.

Both men regarded me in return; Vilkas' expression grim and furious, and Kodlak's remorseful and defeated.

"I'm sorry that you heard that, Celeste," he sighed, lowering his eyes to the floor and shaking his head. "Everything about this curse is ugly and cruel. And, it seems men and women still sacrifice their souls for the sake of obtaining their fleeting, turbulent power. They are our witches, Vilkas," Kodlak added in the same grave tone, lifting his head up once more.

"I'll be ready within the hour," was Vilkas' dark reply as he rose; the chair legs scraping loudly against the flagstones in his haste.

 _He's going after the Glenmoril witches,_ I realised, starting at the sharp, sudden sounds he had made. _Njada, of all people, found them!_

Kodlak shook his head. "No," he insisted evenly, "we must stay our plans, until we know what has become of Aela and Skjor. I cannot have all four of you absent from Jorrvaskr at once. Have you had any word from your brother?" he asked without hesitation, changing the subject before Vilkas could protest.

He shook his head, dropping back into his chair. "Farkas is not the letter-writing type," he grumbled.

"Just as well," Kodlak considered, glancing my way; for whatever reason, I couldn't fathom. "It is better that he concentrate all his efforts on locating our wayward pups."

"Send someone else after the witches," I felt an urge to contribute to the conversation. "Treat it like any other job."

Kodlak opened his mouth to speak, but Vilkas' reply came first; fast and incensed.

"No," he growled. "The witches of Glenmoril are _mine._ "

Kodlak closed his mouth, grimacing yet seemingly unsurprised by Vilkas' vehemence. It was clear that they had discussed the matter prior, and that there was no room, in Vilkas' mind, for compromise. But the air between them was clearly tense on this matter.

I turned my eyes down to the strings of my lute, and resumed the piece where I had stopped playing it a moment ago. For a few heartbeats, there was no more conversation, as I endeavoured to ease my shield-brother's anger with the peaceful air.

"Can I help?" I asked quietly, taking a different tactic.

While I had promised to help cure them, I was yet to find a single way to be of use to them in obtaining what they needed. My role in their cleansing was to continually drown out the beasts with song, which, while they assured me was important as it helped Kodlak to think clearer and Vilkas to face the day in the wake of his recent transformation, felt like a nothing in the scheme of their struggle.

"You _are_ helping," Vilkas replied firmly.

I smiled sadly; my eyes still not rising from my strings. "Perhaps, when the time comes to go on your witch hunt, I might go with you?" I proposed.

" _With_ me?" Vilkas hissed.

"That would not be wise," Kodlak said at the same moment, his voice rising warningly over his second in command's.

I did glance up now, a little surprised by the timbre of their opposition, and frowned at them both, yet continued to play my lute. "Why not? Have I not advanced in the past two weeks?" I asked.

Vilkas drew my attention to him as he shook his head. "This is not about you. Do not try to make it so."

"That's not what I intended-"

"Yes, it is," his reply was blunt, cool and calm; his eyes too knowing. "You try to bait me into taking you by drawing me into acknowledging your improvement," he surmised, then shook his head again, his eyes narrowing. "You _have_ been making progress, Celeste, but you are not coming with me. It is out of the question."

My hands stilled, half way through a verse, and I cast Kodlak a glance. Did I even _want_ to go with Vilkas? Why had I suggested such a thing?

 _Because you can help him keep his calm._ The reply settled around me, revealing a deeper-seated reason to words I had said in apparent whimsy at the time, and, validated by this logic, I felt that I should attempt to convince them _both_ that I could be of use on this expedition.

I knew as well as Vilkas what his task would involve; the witches had to be killed, and their heads rent from their shoulders and collected for use in the severance ritual. It was grisly and barbaric, and beneath us, I felt, but Kodlak's research had uncovered no other way. It was merely a job that had to be done, and by exterminating the coven, the Companions would be ensuring that nobody else be lured into accepting the beast blood, through the witch's means, at least.

The Harbinger was sitting back in his seat, his arms crossed before him and a resigned frown on his face as he regarded me sadly. I could not reason this depth of sorrow, and it made me turn my eyes from him at once.

I trained my focus back on Vilkas. "You need me to come with you. What if you turn-?"

"I won't," he cut me off warningly, his teeth clenched again.

"But you might," I recovered swiftly, turning in my seat so I was facing him, and placing my lute on the table. "You clearly feel _very_ passionate about the task ahead and -"

"I have said no."

"And how am I to prepare for actual combat with Shor-knows what if I have no field training-?"

"Celeste," Vilkas cut in again; stern, with a barb of ice I had never heard in him before now; his tone piercing my throat and freezing my tongue.

I closed my mouth; stunned.

"It is late," his eyes were as equally cold as his voice. "You had best get to bed," he suggested, in a way that made it sound like a command.

Bristling at his dismissal, over a mere difference of _opinion_ , my cheeks flamed. I stood at once, grasping my lute by the neck as I dipped a hasty farewell to the Harbinger, never raising my flashing eyes from the floor.

"I hope my offering has soothed you tonight, Harbinger. I shall report at dawn, to further my training," I murmured, turning and making for the exit.

Kodlak finally broke his silence; calling out wearily after me. "You will not stay in the dorm tonight?"

"No, thank you," I replied stiffly, without turning back.

In three steps I was opening the door; in four, I was outside, staring up into a mute, flat darkness. My eyes burned from the sudden change; thick clouds obscured the moons, aurorae and stars now. I breathed deeply again and again in an attempt to locate my calm, staring up at the blackness as the cool air stung my flushed cheeks. Spindly fingers of fear tickled the back of my neck, threatening to tighten their grasp. I was outside, and alone. Anyone could find me. _They_ could find me.

 _Child,_ I berated myself. With some disdain, I pushed aside my fright, threw my lute strap over my shoulders, and purposefully strode down the stairs, making for home. Before I had reached the Gildergreen, I heard the doors to Jorrvaskr opening.

"Wait."

Vilkas' call was begrudging, and I knew that Kodlak had made him come after me.

I didn't turn, or slow my steps, pretending to have never heard him, and willed him to go back inside. The night had begun so promising; I had felt so welcome; like a true Companion. I wanted to help them. I _had_ to help them. And Vilkas had tossed what I had offered aside.

Jogging footfalls crunched along the gravel behind me, coming nearer every beat. I cursed quietly, drawing to a halt as I closed my eyes. Vilkas was following me; there was no point in trying to outrun him. I would have to turn and endure whatever it was that he wanted to say to me.

I faced the burly Nord, my jaw locking stubbornly as I opened my eyes and watched him slow to a stop before me. "Did I leave something in the mead hall?" I asked cooly.

"Don't be like that because you didn't get your way," Vilkas urged in a murmur, handing me my scarf.

I took it from him, being mindful not to snatch, and broke eye contact to wind it around my neck. Evidently, I _had_ left something behind.

But I did not appreciate his cutting comment; with my scarf secure, I made to turn and bid him good night. In the act of turning away, Vilkas reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Celeste, _wait_ ," he insisted.

Again I complied, turning to face him, forcing a mask of composure over my features as I met his slightly narrowed eyes. "What is it that you need, shield-brother?" I asked evenly.

"To explain," his hand tightened its grip on my shoulder; perhaps his senses were telling him that I wanted to walk away; and his mouth formed an unimpressed straight line. "I need you to be here for Kodlak, when I go," he told me; his tone strained. "Even surrounded by his family, you must see how he is tormented, by his beast, and his conscience," Vilkas' voice lowered to an imploring hiss. "He believes that our suffering is his fault."

I flushed at my childishness while he talked. I had presumed the worst when he had begun speaking, but now? There was truth in what Vilkas said; I had seen the distress in Kodlak's countenance, and had also placed it as guilt. The concern in Vilkas' plea assuaged my fleeting frustration with the man before me. I frowned, glancing down to the cobbles of the courtyard surrounding the Gildergreen, and nodded. "Yes. I see it."

"Then you understand why, as you have sworn to help us, that you must remain here," he stated, rather than asked. In the corner of my eye, I noticed he was ducking down to my level, perhaps to gauge the sincerity of my impending reply.

Again, I nodded, and met his eyes; crestfallen, as I realised that Vilkas had been trying to say as much in the mead hall when he had warned me against making the thread of conversation personal. His refusal wasn't about _me_ at all. "I understand."

"Good," he stood tall again, squeezing my shoulder before he released me; seemingly relieved, letting out a long exhale that created a little puff of white air between us, so cold was the night. He took in our surrounds, and then stepped up beside me. "Come on. I'll see you home."

Feeling muted and ashamed of myself, I simply nodded and resumed my path along the road that would take us through the market square.

We walked in silence then; the air still uncomfortable between us, though no longer crackling with the spark of indignation. The silence gaped wider, and I felt a need to fill it, though my heart was not in it, and a weary inner-voice denied each topic my thoughts threw at me.

At length, I realised that it was not that Vilkas had chastised me that burned; I had experienced worse from the Circle during my training sessions. It was that he had pulled rank on our conversation in Jorrvaskr in order to shush me. He had treated me like a disobedient child that he was sending to her room for her insolence.

 _Get over it_ , I berated myself, as we walked through the empty marketplace and turned down the road that would bring us to Breezehome. _He has explained why he said it._

A stiff breeze buffeted against us from this angle; carrying the tang that promised snow, and soon; perhaps it would fall in the next few minutes. I held my arms around myself, feeling small and sorry for myself, for all my internal chastisement.

 _Get over it for Kodlak,_ my inner thoughts tried again. _He needs you to be adult about this. That is why Vilkas ordered you away; to stop you from arguing with him in front of Kodlak._

This realisation made me sigh openly, and I felt Vilkas give me a sideways glance as my breath puffed out its own little white cloud before me.

"Nearly there," his voice rumbled.

I nodded, clutching my arms tighter as another stiff, icy breeze pushed against us. "I am sorry," I said quietly, knowing that even if the wind caught my words to whisk them away, his superior senses would still hear them. I huffed at the reminder of his abilities; at how much they must have relayed to him over the course of the evening, exposing me for all my determined masks of composure.

"So am I," he admitted in a low tone.

Something fell over my back, and I startled; looking to see what it was. A large hand; Vilkas' hand, settling on my shoulder. He'd draped his arm around me. The heat from his body, pressed next to mine, immediately warmed me and created a barrier against the frigid night.

I turned my head and glanced up to him, crossing my brows. "Vilkas?" I asked cautiously.

He sideways looked down to me and jostled my shoulder where his hand lay, huffing an ironic laugh. "Easy, shield-sister. You were cold," was all the explanation he gave.

"I was," I admitted, glancing back to the road ahead, trying to shake off the discomfort rising within me at his gesture, despite its innocence, as the letter I had written to Hadvar somehow gained weight in my pocket.

–

As though they had been summoned by the discovery of the Glenmoril coven, Farkas and Aela returned the next morning, about two hours after I had begun training with Vilkas.

My teacher stood tall and dropped the practise sword, the uncharacteristic horrified expression twisting his features making me start and turn to see what had happened behind me.

I sighted the pair, shifting around the upturned ship. Farkas looked unharmed, though grimmer than I had ever seen him.

Aela limped beside the mountainous Nord, her fiery hair streaming behind her like actual flames in her wake. Her expression was blank and her glazed eyes, narrowed; it was clear that she was refusing assistance and wanted nobody's pity. But despite having no love for my shield-sister, who would have torn me to pieces a week earlier, I found I _did_ feel sympathy for her now. It was impossible not to; she looked so trodden, like a wild creature who had been broken into a savage tameness, who was fighting to prove to herself that she was free.

She wore armour that was too large for her, made of hide, but as they drew nearer I could see rips in the seams. Given that when I had last sighted her, she had been a werewolf, I told myself that she had simply picked up the first armour she had come across after she had reverted, and that it had been in this state when she had found it.

"Where's Skjor?" was Vilkas' greeting, his words desolate, as though he already knew the answer.

"Not now," Farkas grumbled, stopping before his twin.

Aela's hard eyes wavered then flashed as she glared accusingly up to her shield-brother. "He's dead," she growled as her eyes swerved to land on me; a challenge, daring me to react. I made my expression plain, knowing on some level that it was no use; she would always be able to sense my heart accelerating when she spoke.

A stony silence met her declaration. Aela didn't stop before us; she continued on, limping up the stairs to the verandah, and let herself into Jorrvaskr.

Vilkas glanced to his brother; some unspoken message passing between them. He didn't even look at me as he said quietly, "Celeste, you're in charge of the accounts book. Practise forms and fire at the target when you aren't occupied."

He palmed me a key that he'd taken from his belt, which I knew was for the locked box he kept the gold in. He didn't seem to need a response from me, which was good, because I didn't feel I was at liberty to speak. I had seen how he managed things, during my training sessions; I would have no difficulty with the task in his stead.

Farkas and Vilkas disappeared into Jorrvaskr without another word, their intent plain; to go to Kodlak.

All was suddenly silent in the training yard; those Companions not of the Circle were all out on jobs, as usual. As if to punctuate this newfound isolation, a mournful, howling wind rushed over the wall beyond the targets and training dummies.

I shuddered, slowly retreating to the verandah, placing my sword on a chair, and taking up my cup of water. My hand shook as I lifted the drink to my lips and drained it, sloshing a little of it down my front in my haste to occupy myself.

 _Skjor's dead,_ the void in my mind supplied in a snarling echo of Aela's forceful tone.

Replacing the empty cup on the table, I grasped my bow. Vilkas had told me to continue training, hadn't he? I made myself rise; walked across the earthen courtyard; tugged the arrows I had shot the previous night free; retreated to my shooting point. All of this was done mechanically, automatically, while my mind blanked out everything else, but for the two words that repeated over and over to torment me.

 _He's dead._

It was my fault.

The arrows trickled out of my fingers to land on the dirt by my feet, but for one that I retained and placed. I adjusted my stance, raised my bow, and aimed.

If I had never come before the Companions and played for them that night – if only I had gone somewhere, anywhere else-

 _NO_ , the command in my mind carried Vilkas' drawl. _This is not about you. Do not try to make it about you. Now get to work._

Upbraided by my own thoughts – or in this case, a memory of Vilkas berating me the previous night – I exhaled and fired. The arrow struck the centre circle, a little to the left, but still certainly within the bounds.

I stared at the quivering fletch as the arrow wavered to a stop, huffing a joyless laugh at the sight. Two weeks ago, such a shot would have rendered me ecstatic. Today, the victory felt hollow. I had obtained the training that I had desired from the Companions, and as a result, one of their senior members had died-

I bit out a growl of frustration at myself for continually concluding that Skjor's death, and whatever had happened to Aela, had been my fault. I reached down for another arrow, reminding myself sternly of their crimes: they had chosen to abhor me, they had ambushed me, threatened me, and would have turned me into a werewolf or killed me that night. Even after they had been stopped by Vilkas, they had chosen to fight him, and they had chosen to run. Whatever had happened next had been a culmination of their own decisions.

I placed my arrow and adjusted my stance, lining the target up with the point as my sight. _You cannot hold a grudge against a dead man,_ I told myself next. The Circle in particular would grieve his loss; I could not stand by and breathe easy in their faces because the man that had bullied and vexed me was gone.

"Lady Dragonborn?" a woman asked uncertainly, drawing my whole attention back to where I was.

I lowered my bow at once, arrow still in place, and turned to her. _A customer._ "Oh. Hello, yes. How can I help?"

The woman, a Nord with long, stringy blonde hair was wearing common clothes of brown and green, clutching a coin purse in her hands as she regarded me warily. I had the notion that I had seen her about town, perhaps once or twice in the market square as I had passed through, but had no idea who she was. "Perhaps this isn't the best way," she sighed, to herself it seemed.

"No, please, I assure you," I made light of her disbelief with a welcoming smile. "That mead hall is full of warriors twice my size who will be able to carry out your contract," I mounted the stairs up to the verandah, to the table where the accounts book lay, and motioned that she approach. "I need to start with your name...?"

The woman stepped forward, and took the seat I offered her. After she told me her name and some other details required of the ledger, she told me what she required. I tried not to laugh as she relayed the details of the contract to me.

Her name was Gwendolyn; she managed Battle-Born farms, outside of town. As it happened, she had been receiving the unwanted attentions of the Bannered Mare's resident bard, and given that he knew where she lived, and that she lived alone, she was willing to pay someone to make sure he backed off.

"With pleasure," I murmured as I jotted down the details of the job. Intimidation contracts were one of the most common job requests. I counted out her money before locking it in the safe by the side of the table.

"Promise me you won't mention my name," she insisted. "That will only make him worse."

I glanced up to her, wondering that this hardy woman seemed to carry a genuine level of fear for the smarmy bard. My thoughts darkened as I began to ponder what he might have said, or done, to make her so afraid.

"We will conduct the contract with the utmost discretion," I assured her calmly, though my blood boiled within. I closed the account book before me with more force than I had intended to.

Giving me another uncertain glance, Gwendolyn dipped her head in thanks and farewell, then retreated.

 _Take this job,_ I urged myself immediately. The other Companions were busy, and the Circle would not know, or care. _Take it and teach him a lesson._

 _How,_ I mocked myself? Intimidation contracts generally ended in a brawl!

 _He won't hit you. Not in front of his employer and customers._

This thought resolved me, and I opened the account book to the previous page at once, jotting my name in the 'assigned to' column. A thrill rushed through me as I closed the book again and returned to my archery practise, revelling in the idea of berating Mikael as though I was some champion for the women he had ever made feel uncomfortable. I would go as soon as I was relieved of my position.

Until then, I had to prepare myself mentally for the confrontation.

Words that I would say to Mikael formed and scattered and reformed over the course of the next few hours as I shot targets, practised my sword forms against a training dummy, and noted down additional contracts, collecting people's gold, as both arrived from civilians and couriers.

Vilkas returned to the training yard when the sun was high above. I had resolved to stop for lunch after I had finished my current form, but when I heard the door open, and turned to see my teacher emerging, I stopped what I was doing and watched him approach.

"You're dismissed for the afternoon," he told me gravely, reaching out for my sword. His manner was distracted; he barely looked at me.

I passed it to him. "Shall I return tonight, as usual?" I asked him carefully.

He glanced up to meet my eyes finally; the silvery depths marred by grief. "You have not had training adequate today to bind you to your night time contract, should you wish to stay away."

I faltered, wishing he had just given me a direct yes or no. "Do... _you_ want me to come back and play?" again carefully, watchful for the slightest response. "Or would you consider it inappropriate?"

Vilkas turned his eyes away from me, glancing out to the wall, and the skies above. His reply was still flat. "My wishes shouldn't factor into your decision about tonight. _I_ won't be here."

 _Oh,_ I remembered. "You're going after the..."

A quick, warning look from him made me reconsider my words.

I pursed my lips. "You leave for Falkreath this afternoon?" I tried again.

His look softened; his melancholy glaze returned. His shoulders sank. "Yes."

Nodding, I walked toward him and reached out the safe key to him. "This is yours."

He looked down to the key in my small palm, as though trying to remember what it was, then shook his head. "Can you keep it?" he implored, his voice a little thicker than usual. "Farkas always makes a mess of my book and unbalances the safe, and Aela is not in a frame of-"

"Of course," I cut him off, not needing to hear any more. I closed my hand around the key and withdrew it. "I will diligently maintain your meticulous records," I promised, trying for a half-smile.

He didn't seem to be able to return the smile, though he nodded his gratitude. "All right, then. Farkas will take over training you, tomorrow morning."

"I look forward to working with him."

"Thank you," he mumbled gratefully, perhaps simply because I hadn't caused a fuss. He turned away, making for Jorrvaskr again, to prepare, I assumed. "I will return as soon as..."

He trailed off, seemingly at a loss, and my heart ached for him. Skjor's death was, naturally, a major blow to the Circle, and Vilkas was forcing himself to proceed, venturing out to take on the Glenmoril witches alone as he had vowed, while the rest of his family took time to grieve under Jorrvaskr's roof.

"Vilkas, wait."

He stopped and only turned his head to regard me over his shoulder, but said nothing, and ask I had asked him; waited.

His eyes were despondent, and alone. He looked like he needed a hug. I took a step toward him, resolved on doing just that, and then stopped, rethinking my decision. Despite what had occurred, the professional Vilkas would not appreciate being hugged by his charge. Would he?

The thought made me frown, for surely he would accept the gesture given all that had passed between us. But I had waited too long now, and Vilkas had turned back toward the doors to Jorrvaskr, and was leaving again.

"I'm so sorry, about everything," I called after him hastily.

Vilkas sighed; his body sagging as he did. For a few heartbeats, he hesitated, then he requested of me; "Take care of Kodlak and the others, while I am gone. They will need your strength in the coming days, shield-sister."

He'd said all of this with his back to me.

"I will," I promised. "Take...care of yourself."

Without further requests or ceremony, he loped the last few strides between him and the mead hall doors, and closed them gently behind him once within.

I must have been staring at the doors for a time, because the next thing I knew, Ria's cheerful voice was cutting through my focus, and the world sped up again.

"Vilkas, I did it," she crowed as she rounded Jorrvaskr. "I felled the bloody bear!"

She halted when she saw me standing in the middle of the training yard alone. "Oh. Where is he?"

I shook my head to try to dislodge the melancholy that had consumed me in the wake of Vilkas'. "He's got a job to prepare for, but he's left me the key to the safe. Bear, you say?"

She grinned, and I made myself smile back. Kodlak would tell the others about Skjor, when they had all gathered.

"Oh yes," she seemed eager to talk of her exploits. "Huge, brute of a beast it was, too, terrorising these poor fishermen for every salmon they caught," she drew toward the desk I had retreated to, and sat on the side of the table, watching me write in the account book. "They tried fishing away from the shore lines, and even hired a boat for a time, but the blasted creature would swim out to them!"

"How stubborn," I mused, marking Ria's assignment complete, and noting how much gold she had been promised.

I paid Ria, and the merry woman made for the living quarters, telling me that she needed a bath and some rest, and calling out laughingly that maybe I could sing a song about a bear at that evening's performance.

Smiling until the door had closed behind her, I sank back down into the chair and stared at the open pages of the accounts book. I didn't really take in what I was seeing. I considered my options, regarding my night; to return for a performance, or stay out of the Circle's way, and found that I could not convince myself that removing myself from Jorrvaskr's halls was the correct path.

But I would give the Companions a little reprieve from me, at least. Once the sun had set, I would return home and refresh myself as usual, then undertake the intimidation job at the Mare. And _then_ I would present myself to the Companions, and determine whether or not they were in the mood for music.

I very much doubted they would be, particularly Aela, but whether they wanted me to distract them with song or not, I was one of them, and regardless of what had passed between Skjor and I, I needed to do as Vilkas had bade, and simply _be there_ for them.


	26. To Confront One's Demons

_Chapter 26: To Confront One's Demons_

Even though Vilkas had dismissed me for the day, I remained in the training yard as there was simply nobody else to take over the management of the accounts in his absence. And, for want of something to keep my mind occupied, I continued training in between keeping track of the Companions' contracts.

When I made myself practise with the short sword, I stuck to the forms Vilkas had drilled into me over the past week. But when I took up my bow again, rather than remain standing still and firing arrows, I challenged myself by walking sideways while I was shooting. I had seen Ria practising in this manner once or twice, and reasoned that it was as like to a moving target as I would get in the courtyard.

My aim was naturally effected – and woeful – and without instruction it took a while for my arrows to hit anywhere remotely close to the targets. Progress, as with every other step I had taken toward becoming a better warrior, was slow, but I persisted, confident now that over time I would improve. It seemed that each small success fed and supported the next.

The moment the sun had set over the walls of Whiterun, I packed up the accounts book and locked box of gold, and tucked them into their recess just inside the doors of the mead hall. Jorrvaskr was warm and welcoming within but I saw the light for what it now was; a temporary glow, before the inevitable sorrow. I could see Vignar and Athis sitting around the feasting table, discussing their days without a trace of bleakness to their manners. They didn't know yet, obviously. Nobody but the Circle, and myself, knew, yet.

I crept back out to the verandah, unobserved, and made for Breezehome. It was time to get ready to face Mikael, and my first _official_ contract with the Companions. True, I had not been assigned the task by one of the members of the Circle, but deep within my racing heart, I knew that this job had been made for me. The personal gratification I would gain by facing Mikael in this capacity made me thrum with certainty, and if I could manage it, I might be able to prevent him from harassing all the other women of Whiterun entirely. The vivid anticipation I felt worked wonders to overshadow the black guilt that had gathered in the pit of my stomach when Aela had told us of Skjor's death.

As I was home earlier than usual, my entrance somewhat startled Lydia.

"Oh!" she blinked, sitting up straighter from her place in front of the hearth; she had been leaning over a cauldron, stirring something that smelled divine. Her expression eased into one of calmness; she placed her ladle in the pot and rose to greet me. "This is a nice surprise! Welcome home – did they let you off early today?"

She dipped down to hug me, and I hugged her back, tighter than I had meant to, but I was more pleased than I had realised I would be to see her. "Sort of," I withdrew, half-shrugging. "I have a contract, and I mean to fulfil it now, before my night duties begin."

"I see. What's the nature of this contract?" Lydia's reply carried a feigned lightness, which told me she was suspicious. She took a step back from me, to look me up and down, as though she could discern the nature of her misgivings by observing me.

I cast her an imploring look. "You don't need to worry yourself on my account," I told her quietly, knowing that it would do me no good to try and wave off the oppressiveness of the day before her; it was too consuming, whenever it was touched upon. "One of the members of the Circle died. He was away when it happened, but we found out today."

Lydia didn't gasp; she wasn't the type to react in that way, but her wariness immediately dissolved, and her hand landed gently on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. Were you close?"

I shook my head, somewhat regretfully, but didn't want to explain any further, for that would dredge up the whole, uncomfortable story of what had passed between Skjor and I.

"Even so," she added quietly, her hand falling back to her side. She took a deep breath, and on the exhale added, "It's always sad to hear that somebody has passed away."

My reply was a nod. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me from dinner tonight, too," I stepped past her, intent on retreating to my room to get on with the task at hand. "I do actually have a quick job to attend to before I return to Jorrvaskr, to be with my shield-siblings. I want to be there, in case they need me tonight," I added; my sorrow at the possibility that I might not be wanted leeching its way into my words.

"Of course," Lydia had turned as I had passed her to watch me go, but now I heard her shift back to the hearthside and take up her ladle again. "It's a shame you'll miss dinner, though; this is shaping up to be a nice stew."

"It smells delicious," I called back from the bottom of the stairs. "Could you save me a little?"

"I don't know," Lydia drawled with mock uncertainty. "I'm not sure it'll last 'til morning."

I smiled briefly, ascending the stairs at a run, wagering that there _would_ be a little clay pot of stew kept aside for me. The chances that I would return to Breezehome tonight later on, to give the Circle some space, were high, so perhaps I could take it then.

I chucked off my training gear and cleaned myself down, taking the time to ponder what I should wear for my first contract while I washed. I had no armour, other than the Legion leathers that I hadn't worn since Kodlak's initial warning. Wearing it would not do anyway; I was representing the Companions tonight, not the Legion. The Jarl still hadn't summoned me to Jorrvaskr to retrieve the armour he had commissioned for me on my appointment as Thane either, so I had to assume that it was being made in one of the bigger cities. Given the war effort, I doubted it would be a priority for whichever smith had taken on the job.

Lydia's armour was far too large for me, too – and of course, asking her if I could borrow it would only worry her. In fact, if I prepared myself for anything reminiscent of _battle_ , she would very likely not let me leave the house without her, which in this situation, wouldn't do.

Rolling my eyes at myself and my endless musings, I towelled myself down and yanked open my top drawer. There was nothing for it. I would need to leave the house at a bard, or Lydia would be concerned.

So I dressed for performance, slipping into a straight, pale blue dress made of wool and throwing a thicker, sleeveless tunic of a warm, tanned hue over the top that sank to my hips. I adjusted the laces at the sides of the tunic, pulling them tight, and had the thought that it looked a little bit like a stylised cuirass. Pleased with my selection, for it would give me the _impression_ of a warrior, I accessorised with my Legion arm guards and sword belt, and as an afterthought, sheathed the dagger that I had used in Bleak Falls Barrow in the latter. I wore my softer boots, so that my Legion boots could air out after the day's efforts, and sat on the edge of my bed to work on my hair. I drew the curls up high onto my head, then braided it sideways, drawing the long plait to rest naturally, and comfortably, over my shoulder.

I was ready; my hands were no longer busy. I placed both on the edge of my bed and took a moment to compose myself. I breathed some calming breaths, staring at the wooden floorboards, assuring myself that I could do this; I was a Companion. I could carry out this simple task in their, and Gwendolyn's, names.

 _You must remain vague,_ I reminded myself as I stood and gathered my lute, slinging the strap over my shoulder and adjusting it so it fell comfortably. _He should have nobody but you to blame for what is about to happen._

I nodded, ready as I would ever be, and said goodbye to Lydia, making at once for the Bannered Mare.

–

When I had stepped into the Mare several weeks earlier during my futile attempt to borrow Mikael's lute, it had been relatively empty. Now that the sun had set, it seemed like a wholly different place.

I stopped in the entrance and took in the scene, searching for my target.

The Mare was buzzing with activity. The large, square hearth roared in the centre of the room, accompanying the roaring laughter and conversation from the patrons who clogged every available seat. Where there were no seats available, they stood, leaning against walls, or furniture, or each other. Hulda and her two waitresses had merry looks plastered on their faces, but they were forced – the trio were clearly run off their feet as they took orders and delivered mugs of drink and small baskets of simple fare – roasted beef, leeks and baked potatoes – to their customers.

A strain of song drifted over the rowdy rabble; I turned my attention to the direction it had come from, and glared. That had sounded suspiciously like _Ragnar the Red._ How fitting that the loathsome man would be playing such an equally loathsome tune.

I made my way through the throng and toward the song, spying Mikael eventually around a few heads once I was about half way across the room. He was sitting on one of the long benches in the far corner, facing out toward the middle of the room. He, and most of the patrons in the vicinity of him, were watching a pair of old men with flushed cheeks and red noses, who had linked arms and were dancing a merry jig to Mikael's song.

The sight _was_ rather amusing. I settled myself on the outskirts of the jolly crowd, and let the old fellows finish their twirl.

When Mikael played the final bars, the men fell into uproarious laughter, over what exactly I could not tell (it was likely nothing; they seemed _very_ drunk). Several of the onlookers laughed too, and some even clapped, and cheered, and then the crowd dispersed.

I focussed on Mikael. Either he had not noticed me yet, or he was pointedly making it seem as though he didn't care that I was there. The blonde Nord was shaking his head and laughing at the old men, completely at ease, with his graceful lute clasped in front of him.

Belatedly, I applauded the performance myself, but kept my eyes on Mikael; intent on attracting his attention now. Once there was a path clear for me to approach him, I continued clapping; slow and purposeful, as I took the last two steps to place me in front of the bard.

It had the desired effect; Mikael's head turned up and toward me. He smiled widely; his leering dark-brown eyes unashamedly raking me up and down.

"I was wondering when you would come back to me," he commented warmly, patting a space on the bench seat beside him. "Come, let's be friends again, Celeste. Why did you stay away so long?"

I repressed both my shudder and incense at his too-familiar tone, and remained standing, unwilling to be either intimidated or baited by him; _I_ was going to control this conversation. "I have been busy," I reached into my dress pocket, extracting a gold coin, and extending it for him to accept. It was time to exact the performance I had prepared.

He glanced at my hand, ignoring my offering as his easy gaze rose to meet mine again; unfazed. "So I've heard," he mused, sitting back as he began to pluck out an instrumental number on his lute. "Companion, Thane and _Dragonborn_ ," he whistled pointedly. "Managed to wind some powerful men around that little finger of yours, haven't you?" he added cheekily.

"That's right," I replied evenly; my expression flat, ignoring his implication, which had sent another uncomfortable shudder down my spine and a flash of burning indignation to my very core. Determined to curb my emotions and proceed as I had planned, I raised the hand that I had extended toward him higher, the coin still within, urging him to take it.

Mikael shrugged and stopped playing to reach out; his fingertips brushing the underside of my forearm intimately as he accepted the coin and closed his fingers around my wrist. "Don't feel like talking, hmm? All right, _Lady Dragonborn_ , let's play it your way," he raised an eyebrow to me, smirking as he withdrew his hand and pocketed the coin. "Your gold is as good as anybody else's. What would you hear?"

I looked him up and down then, schooling my calm, and resisted the urge to scrub childishly at my wrist with my other hand. "Your word," I met his eyes, my tactic taking its form.

"I don't know that one," he admitted with a half-laugh.

"I don't doubt it," I replied swiftly, still quiet. "Lecherous skeevers tend to have trouble locating the shreds of decency," I added in a low voice, pouring what menace I possessed into my words. "Yet still, Mikael, I choose to ask it of you now. My colleagues would not have been so merciful with you."

His own look darkened for an instant, and then he raised an eyebrow at me. "All right, I'll bite. 'My word'?" he drawled.

"Yes," I confirmed. I spoke softly still but knew that I was being heard by him over the drone of the busy pub. "It's time for you to stop playing games with the women of Whiterun. I am here to ensure it."

Mikael paused; he stared for a moment as though trying to gauge whether or not I was serious. Then he burst out laughing.

I waited for him to calm down, which was not for what felt like several minutes. When he had ceased to chortle at my expense, I raised an eyebrow at him and enquired, as though he had not laughed; "Do you swear to me that you will desist in your dishonourable activities?"

"And if I don't?" Mikael's voice bore an avid amusement, his eyes glinting up at me in glee, as though this exchange was exciting him. "You'll slap me again?" he stood, letting his lute down onto the bench seat he had occupied. "The challenge is part of the fun. Didn't I tell you so," his tone became a hushed, amorous lilt, "when we were at the college together, after we kissed under the courtyard archway while King Olaf's effigy burned? I like it when you fight me," he smiled smugly, closing the space between us. "Go on," he angled his chin toward me, tempting. "Hit me again."

It took every fibre of will I possessed to maintain my footing and stay my hand as his form loomed above me. In his eyes I saw a darkness that sent a jolt of fear spearing through my calm, and I knew that this was what had reached Gwendolyn; _this_ was who she feared. The man who took every refusal as a _dare_.

"I paid you for a song, _bard_ ," I murmured to him, willing him to retreat and squashing my instinct to step back and flee. I had counted on him attempting to menace me, so I was not afraid of anything except that which I knew would have to be done, if he continued down this path he had started our conversation on.

"Pay me all you like," he raised his hand slowly, hesitating to cast a quick glance around as though to determine that the Mare's patrons weren't interested in our exchange. He must have been satisfied with what he saw; I couldn't tell, for my back was to the room. I remained still; determined to let him think he had the upper hand, for it would make his descent, when it eventuated, even sweeter.

"You couldn't know," slowly, he closed his hand around my braid, tangling his fingers through the woven strands, in what would have looked like a romantic gesture to anyone who fleetingly observed us. "My skills are considered a _gift_ to the pathetic women of this paltry town," he hissed.

Only I felt the weight of his impassioned wrath as he angled his wrist down suddenly; his grip on my hair tightening as he held my head, forcing me to remain looking up to him. I raised an eyebrow at his egotism and show of force, ignoring the sharp tug to my scalp. He wanted me to be mad, or scared, or both, and I would not give him the satisfaction of either response, this time.

"This is your final warning, Mikael," I spoke steadily, ignoring what he had said, and maintaining his gaze with a deadpan expression. "Release me at once, and swear that you will give up this despicable womanising you so gleefully exhibit. You are a grown man, for Shor's sake," I narrowed my eyes in disgust.

I felt his grasp on my hair tighten, as he twisted his wrist a little to make his threat even more pointed. "That's right," he stepped closer still, pressing his body against mine as he wound his free hand around my waist. Again, the gesture would have appeared innocent enough to any observing patrons, as though he was embracing a lover, but I felt a different intention behind it; he had enclosed one of my arms by his restraint. "I am a grown man," he whispered into my ear. "And you, you insatiable creature, are lucky that I have wanted you since I laid eyes on you," he laughed softly against my neck.

I remained as a statue, wondering that truly, nobody else in the pub seemed to be taking any notice of the resident bard and the Dragonborn, but the world seemed consumed by its own revelries. Of course they weren't interested in our embrace, I realised hurriedly; it was well known that I was a bard; any who saw us would assume we had been acquainted intimately during our time at the college together. After all, _I_ had approached _him._

It was time to end to this; I shifted against him, trying to bring my hands between us so I could push him away and finish delivering my message.

" _Yes_ , Celeste, fight me again," he moaned in a whisper under my ear; his breath hot on my neck. His arm around my waist tightened; his hand drifted lower to grasp my behind, pulling me hard against him. He leaned back to fix his eyes on me; the thrill in his face was plain as the bulge in his pants throbbed against my hip, and I thought I might be sick there and then.

"What, no more? Oh, but wait. I see how it is," he smiled knowingly. "First, you want me to eschew my wicked ways?" he raised an eyebrow, pouting at me mockingly. "You precious girl. You really don't know how to drive a bargain with a man, do you? I'll tell you what," he posed.

"Silence, Mikael," I warned him, knowing what was coming. "Don't say it."

"Stay with me," he said it anyway, releasing his hold on my hair as he brought that hand up to cup my cheek. His eyes flashed in excitement as he tilted his head toward me, his intention to kiss me plain. "It would take a woman of your calibre to keep a man of mine satisfied, Celeste. Give yourself to me, and I won't need to even _look_ at another woman again."

Mikael's lips were an inch from mine and descending; I stared at the pink, bulbous flesh and finally allowed all of my fury and indignation to surface, wrapping a single word around my tongue before he broached the gap.

" _FUS_. _"_

Propelled by the thu'um, Mikael flew back from me, slammed into the wall behind him and crashed down onto a table. Empty mugs and tankards scattered and several patrons sitting nearby startled back, crying out in alarm, before they, as every other person in the Bannered Mare did at that moment, turned their eyes towards me in expressions of wary disbelief and shock.

I ignored their eyes, stepping forward slowly with my burning gaze trained on Mikael. My blood boiled through my veins, hot and glowing, swelling in my chest with so much brightness that I felt it might burst.

The pathetic bard groaned, clutching at his stomach, and tried to rise.

"Not so fast," I still sounded calm enough, though I shook while I grabbed his shirt by the collar, twisting the material into my fist as I dragged him off the table. He hadn't regained sufficient awareness of his senses for such movement, so he was brought down to the floor, and crashed to his knees before me.

As he cried out at the jarring his knees had taken, I let go of his shirt and grasped his chin hard in one hand, making him look up to me now.

"You psychotic whore," he groaned, glaring up with disdain.

My free hand fell to my dagger; I withdrew it swiftly and held it to Mikael's neck, before I had even realised I had done it.

The bard stilled, his eyes straining down to look at the knife at his throat without moving his head.

"What's wrong, Mikael? I tried to be nice," I spoke through a shudder of adrenaline, aware that every patron was now my audience. "You wouldn't listen. _Now_ , you will listen to me. You _will_ stop pursuing and threatening the women of Whiterun. From this moment, I am your adjudicator, and your actions are accountable to me," I raised my voice a little, though I maintained only Mikael's gaze, "Should I hear that you have reverted to your old ways, I _will_ come for you."

"And you'll what," he hissed through clenched teeth, still defiant. "Throw me against the wall again? Slap me on the hand?" he spat; no mean feat, given that he had to remain virtually motionless against the blade hovering over his larynx.

I laughed at him openly, tossing my head back as I did. "No, Mikael," I told him, once I had calmed down enough to speak. "That was just a warning," I raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. "Should you fail to heed it, you'll be able to reach all of those high notes once I'm done with you."

It actually took him several seconds to realise what I had implied. His eyes widened perceptibly the moment he did, and he shot another glance, more wary, toward the dagger at his neck.

"Okay, Celeste," he conceded, in the tone of a man trying to soothe a frantic beast. "That's enough. I told you before, we'll play it your way."

I maintained my amused expression in the face of his realisation, and withdrew my blade, sheathing it. " _Finally_ , we understand one another. Keep the coin," I turned from him dismissively, halting to make eye contact with several of the silent, agog Bannered Mare customers.

When nobody said or did anything; not even Mikael, who seemed to be rooted to the floor on his knees behind me, I bowed to the room, but not in the traditional manner of a bard. It was a gallant sweep, reminiscent of the knights and heroes of old.

"As my witnesses," I addressed the room, "I would ask that you spread the word to your mothers, sisters and daughters. Let it be known that Mikael shall no longer trouble them. Let them know that the Companions will ensure he keeps his hands to himself."

And still, silence met my words, but I couldn't tell if it was for fear or awe, from the sea of expressions I beheld. Perhaps there was a little of both in the faces I met before I smiled politely and quit the pub.

Once the door had closed behind me I gasped in a deep breath of cold, fresh air, revelling in my success, and quaking at the terror coursing through me with all I had said and done. I had not anticipated the confrontation to play out nearly so dramatically. I wanted to laugh out loud; to sing my victory to the skies and dance across the cobbles all the way to Jorrvaskr.

When I lowered my gaze to the marketplace, I barely contained a startle; several civilians, and several Whiterun guards, stood before me; staring and silent, just as those in the pub had been. Two nearby stall holders were closer together, whispering to one another and casting me wary glances.

Their regard dulled my euphoria, and I ducked my head and checked my expression, descending the stairs from the Bannered Mare at a run.

"Lady Dragonborn, is everything all right?" one of the guards fumbled over his words hurriedly.

"It's fine – I'm fine," I called out swiftly. "Everything's fine. Just a – misunderstanding," I evaded.

People in the square began to go about their business again, though I sensed several of the guards were trailing after me.

"Do you need any assistance?" another called out in a thick Nord accent.

I quickened my pace. "No, thank you," I called over my shoulder, hurrying toward the steps that lead to the Gildergreen. "The issue has been resolved. You may return to your posts."

"Did you do that?" a voice before me questioned hurriedly; the easily recognisable drawl of Vilkas.

My brows knitted as I raised my eyes to see him standing on the top step. He was clad in his usual steel armour, similar to Kodlak's with the little wolf centred across his collarbone, with the addition of a large, mostly-empty pack on his back and an enormous great sword sheathed at his hip. His face showed no trace of expression; all business, but his eyes were weighed down by regret, that he undoubtedly bore over Skjor's fate. I had the notion that he blamed himself for what had befallen his shield-brother, and wished that he was staying in Whiterun a little longer so I might help to ease him on that matter, as I had resolved myself earlier this afternoon. It was nobody's fault, but Aela and Skjor's.

But he was clearly on his way out of town, and there was simply no time to talk of such things now.

"Oh – good evening, Vilkas. You're still in Whiterun?" I asked pointlessly, blinking in surprise as I stopped before him; my personal glee extinguishing in the face of his dense remorse.

"I was just leaving," his mouth curled down at one corner. "And, don't change the subject. What happened in the Mare? Did you just use the thu'um on somebody?"

I held my chin up high. "Yes. It was an intimidation job," I explained calmly. Would he think it wrong that I had assigned myself a job? Surely not, given the outcome. "My target cornered me, so I did what had to be done," I added with a resolved, calm nod.

"Who was he?" he sounded even more cautious than before.

"Mikael, the bard," I supplied. "A contract arrived against him late this morning. Given my history with him, I took the liberty to fill it," I added openly, make of my statement what he would.

A flash of what _may_ have been actual surprise flitted over Vilkas' features. It was gone in a second, his stern expression back in place so fast that I wondered if I had imagined the deviation.

"You are certain that you intimidated him sufficiently?" he queried.

Again, I nodded. "He knows what will happen if he doesn't heed the warning I gave him."

After a weighty pause, Vilkas sighed and cast his eyes to the skies above. "All right, then," he drawled. "You brought no dishonour to the Companions, from your report, and you haven't managed to get yourself arrested, so this is a win. Make sure you mark it complete, and collect your gold."

"Oh – right. The gold," I blinked. I had forgotten that I would be paid.

Vilkas' eyes descended to regard me warily. "You _did_ take the gold from the client when-"

"Yes! Yes, of course," I waved my hand dismissively.

"Because we are _not_ a charity, Celeste," he added insistently. "There are expenses-"

"I know," I asserted, nodding for clarity. "I collected five hundred gold from the customer."

Vilkas nodded approvingly, shifting his feet a little. "Your cut is-"

"One-fifty, I know," I supplied. Suddenly I wondered if he was stalling his own departure, but immediately shrugged the feeling off as ridiculous. He had wanted to leave for the Glenmoril coven the moment he and Kodlak had confirmed their whereabouts. Perhaps he was merely anxious about leaving me in charge of the Companions' accounts. "Vilkas," I took another step toward him, my tone placating. "I will take care of it, I promise," I met his eyes steadily. "And, I don't plan on assigning myself contracts on a regular basis," I tried for a small smile, despite knowing that he was in no mood to return it. "This particular job simply roused me into action."

He frowned. "That doesn't seem to be all it roused," he indicated my hair.

I glanced down to my braid; it was disheveled, with strands poking out of it every which way. "Oh..." I hurriedly began to unbraid it. No wonder the guards had asked if I needed any help.

Vilkas hesitated still, and after I had loosened the curls and tossed the dark mass back over my shoulders, unbound, he asked in a quiet growl; "Did he hurt you?"

I shook my head resolutely, maintaining my smile. He truly hadn't, despite his hideous efforts to frighten me, and what little I had endured had been worth it when I had shouted him into the wall.

"Okay," Vilkas shook his head, at himself it seemed, and huffed a joyless laugh. "You have kept well enough, and are smiling, so I will take your word for it. I had better go," he motioned beyond me, toward the gates leading out of Whiterun.

"Good luck," I grasped his shoulder. He _flinched_ at the contact, and I frowned, letting my hand fall; relieved that I had not tried to hug him earlier after all. "Are you certain that I can't come with you?" I posed delicately. His grief and guilt over Skjor had clearly taken a major toll on his already tenuous calm.

He rolled his shoulders as though he still felt the ghost of my hand, and shook his head. "Keep an eye on Kodlak for me."

"Of course."

"And Farkas. Make sure he doesn't do anything too stupid."

"I'll try," I laughed a little.

He moved past me and I turned to watch him descend the stairs toward the market square. After a couple of steps, he turned back again. "And, take care of yourself."

I nodded, sending him a smile that felt too sad to be a proper smile. "You too, shield-brother."

He turned away and proceeded without looking back, and after he had turned onto the road that lead past Breezehome and Warmaiden's, I turned back onto my own path, and headed to Jorrvaskr.

A couple of steps later I cursed and stilled, staring up at the great upturned ship, realising that I could have asked Vilkas, if I had been thinking straight, whether or not the Companions in the mead hall even wanted me tonight.

 _You are a Companion, too,_ I reminded myself, and resolved to continue on.

–

I felt a weight of solemnity the moment I closed the doors behind me, and I knew at once that somebody had broken the news to the others.

A few of the Companions looked up when the door clicked closed behind me; one or two greeting me with sad, automatic sorts of smiles, while others just looked back down to their meals or meads without altering their shocked, yet somehow blank expressions.

I saw Kodlak sitting off to one side of the table with Aela and Farkas, talking in a low voice to the brother. All three had noticed my entrance, but the men had gone back to their discussion almost at once, both too grim to be welcoming. Aela merely turned her eyes back to the table, as though she hadn't seen me; it seemed she couldn't muster the will to be angry about my arrival.

With a sigh, I slipped my lute onto the floor and then myself into a vacant chair beside Ria. I would ask Kodlak if he wanted me to play when he and Farkas were no longer conversing, for I didn't want to interrupt them.

As I assembled a modest dinner of grilled fish and baked sweet potatoes, as I didn't feel much like eating, Ria leaned toward me.

"You missed the announcement, but – you know already, don't you?" she asked quietly, touching my forearm gently.

I nodded. "Yes. I was here when they arrived home."

Ria sat back, glancing into her tankard. "I should've known something was wrong when I saw you alone in the yard, but I was too full of myself after my success with the bloody bear," she grumbled the last.

Taking up a knife and fork, I cut a portion of fish and speared it. "You couldn't have known. Nobody expected this to happen."

Ria assented with a sound, but didn't speak, and took a swig from her drink instead.

I took some of my meal, not really tasting it, and enquired to Ria once I'd swallowed; "When did Kodlak tell everybody? I would have been here sooner, but I had a job."

Ria glanced at me, somewhat confused when I said the word 'job', but she chose to reply to my question rather than ask me her own. "Not long ago. Just before Vilkas left," she turned a little in her seat, so she was nearly facing me, her brown eyes widening. "Do _you_ know where he's going?" she asked, still quietly, but now with a trace of something else in her voice, akin to concern. "He wouldn't tell me. Said it was a job for Kodlak, and that was all I needed to know."

 _And that only made her more suspicious, Vilkas,_ I thought wryly, though my only outward reaction was a half-shrug. "I'm sure he has his reasons for maintaining discretion. Perhaps it's something to do with Skjor?" I posed, for it wasn't exactly a lie; Skjor had been a werewolf, and Vilkas was venturing out for their sakes.

"You're probably right," she accepted this, and turned back around in her chair, contemplative. "He did leave very suddenly. I wonder how long he'll be gone?"

I cast Ria a sideways glance, noting how she seemed more fixated on Vilkas' departure, than on Skjor's death. Looking over the young warrior, while she had her eyes trained on her drink, I wondered if there was more than a shield-sibling level of worry on her brow, in her frown, clutching at her heart?

"Who can say?" I mused, considering her in this new light.

Her frown deepened, and she spoke as though I had not. "And why did he go out on his own? I wish he had taken one of us with him."

She seemed too keenly focused on Vilkas' actions to notice my regard, though I suppressed my smile at this hint of Ria's care for him, acknowledging that perhaps she was merely trying to concentrate on anything but Skjor's death. "Maybe he assumed everybody else had their own contracts? I'm not sure. Did you ask him?"

She nodded in a distracted manner, taking another small sip from her tankard. I caught a whiff of it this time; it was honeyed mead. "I offered to go with him and watch his back, but he said it was out of the question."

 _That's a familiar story,_ I mused. Ria bore it well, but it was evident in her expression and body language that she was bitterly disappointed.

I placed my hand on her arm consolingly. "He'll be fine. You know what Vilkas is like," I encouraged.

Again, she nodded, turning and giving me a half-smile that didn't do much to mask her distress. "Yeah, you're right. He's always been a bit of a lone wolf, hasn't he?"

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing in surprise at Ria's startlingly appropriate analogy, but couldn't mask the smile that formed in its wake. "That sounds about right."

Ria raised her eyes to the roof and sighed a long, weighty exhale, sinking back into her chair. I withdrew my hand, and continued with my meal.

"So, this is a horrible business about Skjor, isn't it?" she asked me in a shaking voice, after a pause.

"It is," I acceded with a sigh, uncertain of what else to add, for I didn't know how much Kodlak had explained to them, and I knew nothing of the exact circumstances myself, having missed the announcement.

"And poor Aela," she added, in an even quieter whisper.

I wasn't positive of what she referred to; perhaps merely that she would feel the brunt of his death, as they had been lovers, though Ria's tone suggested there was more to her sympathy. I simply agreed with a silent nod.

Chair legs scraped against the flagstones, and all within the mead hall, including Ria and I, turned toward the sound.

Kodlak had risen. He looked utterly conquered; dejected, full of grief and remorse, and my heart went out to him. If the mead hall did not want my music tonight, perhaps I could play just for him, in an attempt to appease his conscience.

He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated before a sound had been uttered, shaking his head and reconsidering. After a pause, he began; "Companions, now that we are all gathered and fed, I have a few words to offer in remembrance of our fallen shield-sibling," he turned his silvery eyes up, casting them out to every one of us seated silently around him. His eyes rested on me in turn; the warmth I usually saw there was muted, and a sober gravity had replaced it.

"Skjor was a great warrior, and a loyal Companion. In his youth he fought for the Empire in the Great War. Many of you will not know this, but Skjor did not approach me, wishing to join our ranks, as most of you did. I found him many years ago, at a border inn, offering himself as a common sellsword. His bearing intrigued me; he did not seem to mind whether he worked or not, as though he was there simply because he believed it was all he was able to do.

"But I saw a greatness in him, that he did not at the time. So, I recruited him," Kodlak placed his hands on the table, glancing up with more resolve, and shook his head as he uttered a small chuckle. "Not as simple a task as it sounds, I can assure you."

A titter of amusement followed from those gathered around the table. I remained quiet, and watchful; I had not known Skjor in the way that the others had. I glanced to Farkas and Aela, sat either side of the Harbinger, and saw that Farkas was chuckling with the rest, but Aela was staring, still expressionless, at the table, caught up in her own remembrances, no doubt.

"He was pleased to find a home and family amongst the Companions, and we have all had the honour of calling him brother for many years. Though," Kodlak surmised, reaching forward and taking up a tankard from the table before him, "not quite long enough for my liking," he added softly.

There was a scuffle of movement around me; I checked hastily to see that the others were collecting their own mugs. I reached forward to take up one of the empty tankards on the table before me, and quickly tipped a bit of mead from an open bottle into it.

"To Skjor," Kodlak intoned; his tankard already raised. "Our brother, teacher and friend. May his soul attain all he desires and more, in the afterlife."

"To Skjor," the toast was returned, by myself included, and we drank.

Kodlak sat, and the Companions fell back into discussions with one another, their tones still more subdued than any previous night I had spent in their company. But the air felt lighter; their voices weren't so completely stifled; there was no doubt that the Harbinger's words had cast off some of the hovering oppression.

I couldn't take my eyes off Aela. Still she merely stared, motionless, at a point on the table before her. Her eyes were blank; her face was blank. Did she even realise where she was?

Kodlak leaned toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder, and Aela startled out of her reverie; her head turning slowly to face him as she watched him speak. She nodded slowly, once, and rose, then sauntered from the feasting table, making for the stairs to the living quarters.

A force within me – perhaps guilt, perhaps courage, or perhaps some mixture of the two – made me stand and go after her. I could feel Kodlak's eyes on me as I passed him, but as he didn't caution or stop me, I continued on, uncertain of what I would say when I caught up to her, but feeling as though I simply _must._

"Aela?" I closed the living area doors behind me with a dull 'click'. The warrior woman was several steps ahead of me, making for the side hallway to her room.

She froze at the sound of my voice, and I froze at her reaction, my heart skipping a beat. _She was going to kill you, or turn you,_ my inner voice panicked. _What are you doing?_

I made myself remain as I was, breathing deeply in an effort to calm my racing heart and suppress my intrinsic terror.

At length, she turned her head and glanced at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were narrowed, but I saw no hint of the livid judgement that I had seen upon other such observations. "What is it?" she asked, a trace of a snap in her otherwise dull tone.

I took a step toward her, clasping my hands in front of me so I wouldn't fidget with them, and frowned. "I'm sorry about what happened," I told her simply.

"You're _sorry_?"

"I am," I repeated swiftly, nodding for emphasis, maintaining Aela's shimmery green gaze stoically. "Even though I know that you won't believe me. And that's fine. If I were you, I wouldn't believe me either. I just...wanted to say it."

After another pause, she turned herself fully to face me. "Why are you here?" she asked with some exasperation.

I wasn't certain if she meant why now, or why at all. "Because you are my shield-sister," I told her squarely.

Her mouth curled into an ironic semblance of a smile. "Am I? After everything Skjor and I put you through?" she said, with a hint of disdain.

I nodded, wondering at her reply. Was it possible that it was not only the cold finger of grief over Skjor pinning her down, but also a sense of dishonour, over what had happened between _us_? Had Kodlak spoken to her about it, as he had promised he would, despite her being already weighed down by the loss of her shield-brother and partner?

She shook her head, taking a step forward to me. "Then you are a fool," she barked sternly, her eyes finally flashing wildly. "An utter fool, as the _Dragonborn_!" she reprimanded, throwing her hands up in annoyance. "You're going to lead Skyrim to its grave, expecting others to have your back as you sing your pathetic plea to the dragons in the hope that they'll play nicely _,_ " she snapped. "And when you fail to tame _those_ beasts, others will die as payment for your naïve negligence."

There was no answer I could give that would not result in further argument; she would believe of me what she would and was not in a mindset to be reasoned with. I bore her rant, maintaining my controlled exterior as I let her words wash over me, knowing within my heart that what she said was untrue. While music calmed the Circle's inner wolves, I had no presumption that anything short of brute strength would take down a dragon. That was why I had come to the Companions and joined them, after all. And once I left, I was bound for the Greybeards. I expected nobody to follow me to High Hrothgar, and as for what happened after I had left them? Well. I would see where I stood, after I learned what I needed to know.

"Don't look at me like that," Aela snarled, her eyes darkening and narrowing further. "I do not want your pity."

"This isn't pity," I found my voice at once, and sighed. "And I've said what I came to say."

"Then it's time you were going," she nodded pointedly to the door leading to the stairs. "Your enraptured pups await," she grumbled.

She turned away from me, but I hesitated, again furrowing my brows at her response. "Do you never allow yourself a moment to be calm, or at peace?" I asked her, before I had thought it through. "Tonight of all nights-"

" _Leave_ ," she gnashed, not even bothering to turn back this time.

Defeated, I left her to her isolation. I had tried, and I had to take heart in knowing that I had just managed to have a conversation with Aela, and that while she had insulted and raved at me, she had neither threatened nor tried to cast me out of Jorrvaskr. It was a start to what I hoped would be a reconciliation between us.


	27. The Lowest of Blows

_Chapter 27: The Lowest of Blows_

I did play for the Companions that night. Kodlak bade me sit by him when I returned to the mead hall, so I gathered my lute from where I had left it beside Ria, and joined the Harbinger, setting myself down on the seat that Aela had occupied.

Without being asked to, I swiftly tuned, then commenced, opting for instrumental numbers that might drift behind the threads of private conversations and condolences, and peacefully fill the gaps when talk ebbed.

Kodlak listened, song after song, sitting back in his chair with his eyes turned to the ceiling. They flit over the beams and high, red flags of the arching roof. Occasionally, he took a draught from his tankard.

"Won't you sing for us tonight?" Farkas leaned forward on his chair to ask from the other side of the Harbinger.

I cast him a small smile and declined. "You don't need my voice invading your thoughts tonight," I explained.

Kodlak turned toward me slowly, curiously, as Farkas replied, "What do you mean? I love your voice. I missed it, while I was away."

Another small smile was returned to him. He said exactly as he thought, didn't he? "Thank you, shield-brother," I continued plucking out my choice of song, a hint of gratified amusement in my reply. "But when grief is fresh, I do not wish to sing, for fear of unleashing torrents of emotions."

Kodlak spoke up then; the first I had heard from him since he had asked me to join him; his voice thick. "There is no shame in mourning the loss of those we love."

I agreed with a cordial nod. "I don't cast shame upon expressing one's feelings. I only mean, I have found the grief at one's core to be of a more personal, private nature, and would not wish to impinge on my shield-siblings by calling it up without their leave."

I shuddered at my counter, remembering how I shied away from my grief, even when alone, and put off enduring it with endless distractions and internal reprimands. I had still not cried about my parents' deaths; tears had certainly surfaced over the horror of that night, or over other matters since, but I had always been too busy to allow myself to give in to it, and had suppressed it.

Kodlak shook his head sadly. "Why is it that these young one's insist on such lonesome paths?" he asked himself, it seemed. "Hardship is better suffered with those who remain, who might comfort you, than in a remorseful, self-inflicted solitude with only your own cruel thoughts for company," he replied resignedly. I knew that he was thinking of Aela, and Vilkas, and not only of what I had said.

"Perhaps it depends on the nature of the individual," I responded gently. "Sorrow can cloud a person's judgement, and make them say and do things they would not ordinarily do. Some people don't like to be so exposed in the company of others, particularly to those who might be pained by a more open display of their remorse."

"True enough, I suppose," Kodlak admitted in a soft undertone, turning his eyes to his mead. "We each manage our grievances in our own way."

Our brief talk concluded there. I played on long into the night, until the mead hall was empty of all but Kodlak and Farkas.

During my next break between songs, Kodlak spoke, sounding less defeated than before. "You look tired, little dove. You should get some rest."

I blinked up at him, considering myself. "I am weary," I realised. "But I would play another, if you would hear it?"

Kodlak nodded for me to proceed; Farkas, who had for a time been sitting forward with his elbow leaning on the table and his chin on his hand, huffed a laugh. "We would hear it."

For this last song, as only Kodlak and Farkas remained to listen, I sang for them. I chose a song that I had not sung for them before, but that I thought might reach them, to both soothe and allow them to examine their grief, should they wish it amongst friends, as Kodlak had implied earlier. It was called _Wergital the Wolf-Boy_.

" _Kynareth watched from the rain, clouds, and skies,  
A Breton child cloaked in a furry disguise-_" I sang.

"No, please," Kodlak reached for me, touching my arm lightly with some sense of urgency to his grave tones. "Not that."

I stilled and raised my eyes to his. Beyond Kodlak, Farkas seemed confused, but the pleading gravity I saw in the Harbinger's face made me flush for attempting to sing _that,_ tonight of all nights. How could I have been so stupid? The song ended with villagers killing the wolf-boy and his soul ascending to Kynareth; a fate which Kodlak would welcome should it be within his power to choose it! But unlike the wolf-boy, who had merely been adopted by a pack of wolves, werewolves were bound to serve Hircine eternally; by taking on the beast blood, they had committed their souls to a Daedric Prince.

 _That's who Skjor is serving, right now_ , I realised in horror. But then, from accounts of his take on their affliction, he would have verily welcomed his ascension to Hircine's hunting ground.

"Oh, Gods. I'm so sorry," I turned my eyes down, unable to hold Kodlak's sombre gaze as the guilt took hold of me. "I wasn't thinking. Let me try another," I said in a rush.

Before either replied I commenced playing; choosing _The Lost Islands of Old Yokuda_ , which told of the ancestral home of the Redguards that had sunk into the sea in the First Era; perfectly safe subject matter.

" _I remember Lost Yokuda. I remember all her great islands,  
I remember Samara. Indeed, I had a husband there_," I crooned.

Kodlak sat back again, watchful and breathing in long, drawn out sighs now and then. I focused on my music; pouring the last of my energy into it, willing it to ease the Harbinger's torment, and make up for my blunder.

As I brought the song to its close, I looked up, and was relieved to see that he seemed more serene.

"That was great," Farkas commented easily. "It works so much better, when you sing."

"I am glad I was able to help," I smiled, giving him an obliging nod, interested in what he had said, but too tired to examine his statement further. I regarded Kodlak once more. "Now, I think I might take up your suggestion that I retire," I rose, looking for my coat.

"Sleep well, Celeste," Kodlak bade, casting me a small, somewhat distracted smile.

Farkas got to his feet, suddenly as though he had just recalled something. "Do you want me to walk you home?" he burst out.

At that moment I remembered, with a pang, that in my haste to leave Breezehome to complete the intimidation job, I had left my coat and scarf in the entryway. I hadn't even noticed when I had set out! It was far too cold in the dead of night to venture home without it.

I shook my head, meeting his silvery gaze, and half-smiled. "I would stay in Jorrvaskr tonight, if I am welcome?"

"Always," Kodlak smiled more steadily, as Farkas took his seat again.

Both men seemed pleased by my decision to stay, and with a few final good nights, I made for the living quarters, and fell into my bed.

It had been a long day, and not only that; it had engaged _all_ of my sentiments at one point or another. In the warmth of the dormitory, not even the snores of my shield-siblings or scratchiness of the furs were enough to keep me awake for more than a fleeting couple of minutes.

–

When I woke, later than I usually did, I raced home to change (remembering to pick up my coat) and then rushed back to Jorrvaskr, hoping that Farkas would excuse my tardiness on account of the previous stressful day.

But when I arrived at the training yard, I found it empty. Crossing my brows and wondering if Farkas had simply forgotten that he had been assigned to train me, I entered Jorrvaskr by the back doors to retrieve the accounts book and box of gold. I'd secured the key Vilkas had entrusted me with on the same chain that the Passero seal rested, so I might not lose it.

I glanced around the mead hall; it was empty but for Tilma and Brill, who were silently cleaning the main room of the breakfast things.

"Tilma, have you seen Farkas?" I called out.

The elderly housekeeper glanced up blearily. "Not this morning, dear. I could check his room for you?"

I said that wouldn't be necessary; thanked her and returned to the yard, biting my bottom lip and wondering if he was suffering the loss of Skjor alone, as well? He, like the other members of the Circle, weren't able to sleep, so if he was within, it was all I could attribute his not being here to.

I let him be. But, within five minutes of picking up my practise sword and beginning my forms, the riddle unravelled. The not-too-distant sound of stone scraping against stone caught my attention, and when I turned toward automatically, I froze when I confirmed that it was the underforge opening.

Farkas and Aela stepped out, mid-conversation, and as the rocks scraped closed behind them, I caught a snatch of it.

"-won't approve," Farkas was saying uncertainly.

"It is better that Kodlak doesn't know," Aela sighed, as though the prospect _did_ vex her. "But I will not _stand by_ pleading the moral high ground while the Silver Hand go unpunished."

"I know," Farkas said in a low, consoling manner. "I won't forget what I saw any time soon."

"Regardless of-" Aela continued.

A breeze swept over the wall, rustling my clothes and hair.

Aela stopped speaking at the same moment. Both turned to regard me, stilling in their tracks; both, for an instant, looking guilty.

I hadn't made a sound or movement since they had emerged, so I had to assume that the wind had carried my scent to them.

Aela's expression immediately flattened. "See you tonight," she grumbled to her companion.

"You can count on it," Farkas replied, his face also losing its momentary regret as Aela made for Jorrvaskr.

She said nothing to me; not even minding to cast me a second glance. Once she was gone and the doors were closed behind her, I turned to face Farkas, unable to hide my concern.

"Are you all right?" I asked him, glancing briefly beyond to the closed underforge. Had they been out all night, exacting revenge on the _Silver Hand_ who had, from the thread of their conversation, _murdered Skjor_?

Farkas saw my attention flicker. "Everything's fine. Sorry I'm late," he strode to me, nodding to my short sword. "Vilkas has you using that with two hands?"

I blinked down to the blade in my grasp; of course he didn't wish to discuss what they had been doing. "He taught me to listen to my needs, and I felt too weak only using one," I shrugged.

Farkas 'hmmed', but it was good-natured enough. He collected another training sword from the verandah, then stepped down to join me on the earthen yard. "All right. Let's see what we're dealing with here," he swung the blade a few times, flexing his fingers around the handle and then tightened his grasp, lowering his stance.

"Right," I fell into my own; the one I had assumed time and time again to spar against Vilkas over the past week, trying to push what I had witnessed a moment ago from my mind. Though Farkas was the most easygoing of the Circle, I had seen him training Ria, and he had always seemed to throw himself into their fights, despite their difference in stature. I would need all my wits about me, lest I disappoint him from the start, and end up face-first in the dirt.

A rush of determination to do well before him swept through me, and I raised my training sword out to meet Farkas', saying nothing. I squared his silvery eyes, cast him a brief nod, shuffled forward, and swung.

–

Another week passed, and the mead hall gradually recovered from the news of Skjor's death. I continued training with the bow and short sword, and on the second day, Farkas had introduced daggers.

He'd passed me one for each hand, and said that they might suit me better than a sword or axe, as I shouldn't have any trouble bearing their weight.

"And, by all reports, you're already a little familiar with a dagger as it is," he'd added with evident, smug amusement.

It had taken me a moment to realise that he referred to the intimidation job on Mikael, for of course, news of my warning (and subsequent threat) had spread throughout the town swiftly.

I had flushed but covered my mouth to hide my burst of laughter; Farkas had chuckled in response and pat me on the back gleefully, insisting that it had been the best story he'd heard come out of the Mare in years, but that if I had a need to follow through, he'd better get on with teaching me how to use them.

My routine continued similar to the previous weeks, though less regimented. I would arrive at the yard at dawn; set up the accounts table, and begin practising for myself. Farkas would join me an hour or two later, usually emerging from the underforge with Aela, as the pair had the first day. I learned to ignore their appearance, often turning away from them entirely to focus on a training dummy or target, until I heard the doors to Jorrvaskr click closed behind me, and Farkas' footfalls draw nearer.

Farkas was a more relaxed teacher than Vilkas, owing to his nature, but the sheer additional weight behind his blows made training against him a challenge. He didn't talk as much as his brother, either. After showing me a stance or a form, he would have me practise it against him, and for hours at a time 'good' and 'not quite' and 'put your arm into it' were the only snatches of words I was offered by the enormous Nord.

Not that I didn't _try_ , occasionally, to determine exactly what he and Aela were doing of a night, when an opportunity presented itself. I knew that they were seeking retribution for Skjor's death, but wasn't certain how long they might continue their late night journeys until they considered the debt paid. Were they using the tunnels to exit Whiterun, and hunting the Silver Hand down? It seemed likely, but knowing that Kodlak would not approve of their activities made me want to know the full of it, so that I might derive some form of understanding between the members of the Circle.

One such opportunity to caution toward the topic arose five days into his training me. We had paused our session so that I could accept a contract from a courier, and while I had been jotting down the details and securing the gold, Farkas had taken a seat beside me.

I glanced at him as I saw him shuffle; he rolled his shoulders, reaching back and rubbing at the muscles in his neck as he tilted his head and grimaced.

I turned my eyes back down to the accounts book, scribing '800 gold' in the paid column carefully. "Rough night?" I asked him lightly.

Farkas huffed, then after a pause replied with, "You could say that."

Replacing the pen and closing the book before me with a snap, I rose and turned my full attention back to my teacher. "Anything I can do to help?"

He stood as well, easing himself up onto his feet, and shook his head. "Nah. This is Circle business. C'mon, you still haven't managed to hit the centre of the target when you're moving," he changed the subject. "We'll work on that this afternoon."

I frowned, but made sure I didn't sigh as I gathered my bow and ventured out to collect the arrows. "I wish I knew how to help," I mumbled, loud enough for him to hear, in the hope of pressing him a little.

Farkas didn't answer and merely watched me with his eyebrow raised, holding out a quiver that I had forgotten to take with me from the verandah when I had set out. I did sigh then, as I placed the handful of arrows in it with a clatter, then slung it over my shoulder and turned toward the targets.

There was no more opportunity for talk that day, but gratefully, with Farkas' assistance, I managed to hit the centre target a few times before the sun had set.

Early on the eighth day of our training together there was a minor break to our regime; one that made me forget all about Farkas and Aela's quest for revenge.

A courier approached Jorrvaskr. Farkas and I stopped training so that I could collect the job, but there was no accompanying bag of gold, and no explanation from the courier. He simply confirmed who I was, before palming me a thin letter and leaving.

I frowned after the man's departing form, then shrugged, turning the letter over and assuming that account details for payment must have been written within.

My eyes widened when I saw my name written on the front of the letter in Hadvar's neat, officious handwriting.

My heart skipped a beat. Dropping my training daggers, I grasped the letter in both hands and let out a shriek of surprise.

"What's the matter?" Farkas called out.

I glanced to him briefly, turning my eyes back down to the letter almost at once as I grinned. "Nothing's wrong!" I replied, sauntering toward the verandah as calmly as I could manage, and crashing down into the chair before the accounts book. "I just need a minute, to read this," I added, distracted.

"Suit yourself," Farkas droned, then trudged back to the verandah, sitting in the seat he liked to occupy whenever we rested.

Grateful for Farkas' relaxed manner – his brother would _never_ have allowed me to stop training to read a _letter_ – I broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Nervous excitement swelled within me that only fuelled my goofy grin.

At that moment, I didn't care if I was being observed, or what anyone else thought of me. I read:

 _Dearest Celeste,_

 _I have been replying to your other letter but a rumour reached our camp an hour ago, and I_ _ **must**_ _write you immediately of it. I will send this letter via the fastest courier money can buy, and pray to the Divines that it reaches you before other whisperings do._

My smile fell; the glowing anticipation in my chest dulled and grew heavy. _What_? I must have paled, for Farkas asked me if I was all right. I think I nodded to him, as I scanned the page for more.

 _I should make clear that I, and the Legion, know it to be a false rumour. I write to prepare you, for I have no doubts it will spread like wildfire, as is its intention, injuring you in the process, and I would do anything to ease that blow, even if it means I am the bearer of one now._

 _To put it simply – I can't bear to put the words to the page but I_ _ **must**_ _– the Stormcloaks are claiming that the Dragonborn has joined them._

What he wrote was absurd. I read Hadvar's words over, my eyes burning as I raked across the sentence again and again. Still, together the words made no sense. How could such a rumour have begun? I would _never_ join the Stormcloaks; they were responsible for killing my parents – they had nearly killed me!

 _This is not a rumour intended to affect you. Please trust me on that account. It was doubtless created by some Stormcloak recruiter, intended to swell their ranks and owe credibility to Ulfric's claim. If the people might believe that Akatosh's chosen and Skyrim's hope has aligned with Stormcloak, it may rally those sitting on the fence to his side._

 _Remember that we_ _ **know**_ _this rumour to be a lie. Arm yourself, my precious girl; forewarned, you can prepare and respond to those who would question your allegiance as you see fit._

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths to soothe my galloping heart. I had to think, not panic. Prepare myself, as Hadvar had urged.

Hadvar knew it was a lie, as did the Legion, but still I felt a need to squash the rumour before it gained ground and recruited the Stormcloaks any extra men or women for the wrong reasons.

I could think of no way forward at that moment. My mind reeled, desperately afraid and screaming at the injustice of it. How _dare_ they use my name in this way after what they had done?

I made myself read on, for the letter was nearly at its end:

 _I do not doubt the General will write to you soon, insisting that the only way to thwart the rumour will be to join the Legion and to be seen supporting the Empire, both in the cities and in the field._

 _I wish I could give you useful advice on how to manage this request when it comes. My heart insists I urge you against joining the Legion, at all costs, for they will parade you about for the whole of Skyrim to look upon, uncaring of the danger they will bring you by doing so. By openly defying the Stormcloaks, they will make a target of you, while at present, to Ulfric's strategists you are, by name alone, a useful tool to further their cause. My head counters my heart, conceding that should no definitive action be taken against this rumour, there will be people who believe it on_ _ **both**_ _sides._

 _However you choose to act, my darling Celeste, please know that you have my full support._

 _All my love,  
Hadvar_

I sat up, folding the letter and hastily shoved it into my pocket. Staring at the closed accounts book, my eyes brimmed with tears and my cheeks burned hot. Thoughts flitted through my mind; a jumble of reactions and arguments that blurred into a turbulent, deafening chaos.

I must have remained staring for some time. A large hand on my shoulder startled me back to the now, and I glanced up to see Farkas looking at me.

He dropped his hand, and gave me a kind, somehow understanding half-smile. "Want to go beat the crap out of something?"

" _Yes_ ," I stood; the chair legs scraping loudly against the floorboards of the verandah. I grabbed for the nearest weapon; a training sword, and grasped the handle tightly. My knuckles turned white as I charged across the yard, my eyes on a hapless training dummy, as I imagined the head of Ulfric Stormcloak set on its wooden shoulders.

I swung the blade over my head as I closed in on my target, heedless of Farkas' call behind me; I didn't even hear what it was he said.

A loud, undignified roar, the likes of which I had never uttered in my life, clawed its way out of my throat and echoed around the yard. It was not a thu'um; this sound was entirely primal, and belonged to me, not the dragons.

Arcing the blade sideways and striking the dummy's neck with all the anger, panic and affront I felt, I felt the resounding jar as steel hit wood vibrate through my arms, shudder down my back and legs, and depart through the tips of my toes.

 _CRACK._

I startled at the sound, and stepped back.

 _Thump._

Temporarily mollified, I stared at what I had done, my breaths coming slow, and sharp. The training dummy's neck, a wooden stake, had snapped under the force of my blow.

"Wow," Farkas jogged to my side with a bark of a laugh, throwing his arm around my shoulder as he observed the dummy's head, which had thudded down onto the dirt beside it, and was now rolling back and forth pathetically beside one of the targets.

I jumped when he touched me, glancing up to him fearfully; my eyes wide. "I didn't mean-"

"Don't apologise," Farkas cut me off, grinning down to me. "Just, remind me never to make you angry."

I wasn't sure of how to reply, so turned back to look at the beheaded dummy again. My fury expelled; my mind had started already to tick over the possible ways that I might attempt to kill the rumour that I knew might arrive in Whiterun at any moment.

"Hey," Farkas got my attention again, jostling me under his arm. I glanced back up to him, though my mind was only partially on where I was. He gave me appraising look. "You should go to Kodlak."

I was about to dismiss the idea, for it was not Kodlak's problem, when I hesitated, and thought before I reacted instinctively and closed my thoughts in on themselves. What he had said the previous night, about condemning oneself to solitude during hardship, nudged at me pointedly.

I found myself nodding, then detangled myself from Farkas. "You're right," I murmured. "Kodlak will see a way through this."

–

It didn't take the Harbinger's superior senses to notice that I was upset. As soon as I entered the living quarters I saw movement from his table, and he called out, clear and cautious; "What has happened?"

I reached his side quickly, staring at him with wide, blazing eyes, and wondered where to begin? I gave up on threading together a coherent sentence entirely. Rather than try to explain, I simply gave Kodlak the letter, and took my usual seat across from him.

"Please," I implored in a muttered moan, as Kodlak's sharp, silvery gaze flickered from me, concerned but hard, to the letter. I couldn't find any words to add to my 'please', so left it at that while he read. He would understand.

To begin with, I watched him closely for reaction. The moment his eyes widened and his expression went from sad to startled, I couldn't bare any more, and I closed my eyes, thunking my head down on the tabletop between us. Tears rose, shimmering behind my closed lids, threatening to spill forward, and I grit my teeth, willing them away.

A rustle of paper and a large hand resting on my back signalled that he had finished it.

"You trust this Hadvar?" was the first gentle question he asked.

I raised my head and nodded, sitting up straight and fixing him with a woeful look.

"You have mentioned him before," he noted gravely.

Again, I nodded. "He saved me, during the Helgen incident," I supplied morosely; some colour rushing to my cheeks.

"Ah, yes," he recalled, sitting back and placing the letter on the table between us; offering it to me, if I would take it back. "The Legion soldier, from Riverwood. I remember now."

I took it and stared down at Hadvar's handwriting, noting how his script was more rushed than his previous letters; there was a sharper angle on the whole, and more of his letters were joined. Hastier, and with unashamed endearments throughout, as though he had been too upset about the news to reign in his feelings. He had even signed it with _all my love._

"I care for him, a great deal," I admitted to Kodlak quietly, staring at those three beloved words scrawled above his name.

Kodlak 'hmmed' an assent, and reached out touch my chin; easing my focus up, and off the dreaded, yet precious letter. I gazed at the Harbinger.

In his face, I saw compassion; he smiled sadly as his hand fell back to his own knee. "And, little dove, he clearly cares for you. He risks much in writing this warning."

I agreed, but frowned, because this was not why I had come to him. "Kodlak, how can I stop the rumour?"

The Harbinger hesitated, before admitting; "You can't."

"I _must_. More people will join the war because of it."

"People of sense will not readily sign their lives away over a rumour," he continued heavily. "They will do it for power, or money. Something tangible. If the Stormcloaks say you are with them, then people will naturally demand that you appear," he shrugged. "When they cannot produce you, then, after a time, the rumour will die off on its own."

"You really think so?" I asked, my eyes wide and my voice shaky and small as this small hope wound its way through my aching head.

He nodded. "Your Hadvar has told you of the Legion's position. If the rumour poses a risk to their war effort, I would wager that they will endeavour to squash it, to their own end."

I glanced to the letter again, duly reminded. "He believes General Tullius will write to recruit me."

"I agree with his assumption," Kodlak replied easily. "You would be a prize for either side to obtain, and your open allegiance to one or the other would settle this and all other like rumours indefinitely."

My head snapped back up to him; I was a little surprised by his admission. "You think I should join the Legion?"

"I think you should do what you believe is right," Kodlak smiled cordially.

I glanced to the roof. "Please, Kodlak. I don't know what to do," I repeated. "I would welcome your counsel. What would you do?" my tone lowered as I regarded the old warrior again. "I don't want people to join the Stormcloaks because of me. If I must join anyone, then I am with the Empire. But I don't _want_ to go to war."

"Then, there is your answer," Kodlak advised. "And, since you asked, if I were in your position, I would do the same. I would remind Tullius, when his recommendation arrives, that you are the Dragonborn, and as such, the resolution of the dragon issue that Skyrim finds itself in," he gave me a pointed, sideways glance, "must be your priority."

"A refusal?"

"A deference, if you wish," he corrected. "If a time arrives that your Dragonborn duties are completed and the war is not, perhaps you may then choose to openly ally yourself with the Legion?"

"Yes," I nodded swiftly, pleased with this organising of thoughts Kodlak had managed for me. "Yes, I can live with that."

After the Greybeards; after everything that they asked me to complete; after I became the warrior that the legends told Dragonborns were, I _could_ envisage joining the Legion, if it would help end the war sooner, and allow me to get close enough to Ulfric Stormcloak to make good on my vow to use his words against him. I already knew _FUS_. Perhaps the Greybeards would teach me the rest.

Relief swam through me as I leaned forward and hugged the Harbinger. "Thank you, so much," I squeezed him, laughing a little at his typical leap and then subsequent relaxation into my embrace. "I could not see a path through my fog of rage and panic."

"Any time," he patted my back, then squeezed my shoulders very lightly as though he thought any more pressure might break me.

After I retreated and sat back again, we spoke only a little longer.

Kodlak advised a strategy of openness, which meant I would need to tell anyone who would hear me about the rumour, and its falseness, before it arrived in Whiterun.

It was a brilliant plan, and with a lighter heart I pleaded that I be excused from my Companion duties for a few hours. He allowed it with a chuckle, reminding me again that he wasn't my master. I grinned at him and leapt to my feet, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and another thank you before I ran off, much to his bemusement.

When I returned to the training yard, Farkas was talking to a client. I winced, hurrying to my post, opening the account book and mumbling my apologies. Once their job was recorded and paid for, Farkas set his silvery eyes on me.

"Feeling better, shield-sister?" he asked carefully.

I nodded, closing the book and rising; unthreading the key to the Companions money box from my necklace. "I am, for now. Would you be able to manage the accounts for an hour or two?" I asked, holding out the key on my palm and meeting his gaze flatly. "I must speak to the Jarl. I'll come back as soon as I've made my report."

I would tell Farkas of the rumour when I returned, but I had determined that it would be prudent to tell Jarl Balgruuf before anyone else.

Farkas looked uneasily from the key, to me. "You sure? Vilkas doesn't trust me with-"

"He trusts you more than anyone," I cut him off with a compassionate smile, and reached for his hand, palming him the key and closing his large fingers around it. Regardless of whether his smaller twin had told him or me as much didn't matter; it was clear that _their_ familial ties were strong enough for it to be so, and I was certain that Vilkas had been joking when he had advised me that Farkas made a mess of his accounts.

I left Farkas on the verandah with brief instructions soon after, with both Kodlak's supportive advice and Farkas' contented smile fortifying me.

As I hiked the stairs to Dragonsreach, it came upon me how much _I_ truly seemed to trust my shield-siblings. I could never have imagined when I entered their ranks intent on joining them for my own benefit how intently their acquaintance would impress on my soul.

I drew myself out of my musings when I was let into Dragonsreach by a Whiterun guard who held the door open for me and bade me good morning. Within the expansive entryway, I spied Lydia, lounging on the seat I had first seen her at in the entry.

She saw me at the same moment. Her eyes widened briefly, then she put down the sword she had been sharpening with a clatter, rising to meet me with her arms extended.

"What's happened?" she asked me swiftly, drawing me to the side of the entry with a hasty glance toward the Jarl's throne, perhaps making sure that I hadn't been spotted yet. "Were you summoned?"

I shook my head; my shoulders drooping as I realised how angry my news would make my housecarl, on my behalf.

"Can we talk somewhere?" I asked her quietly, changing my mind about who I should tell first at once. It wouldn't be fair on her if I didn't give her some warning of what I was about to announce.

She nodded swiftly and led me further away from the main thoroughfare, to a bench seat along the side wall. "Nobody ever comes here," she told me. I sat, and she sat, turning her knees toward me and fixing me with her expectant green gaze. "Well?" she prompted, grasping my hands.

I squeezed them; a reassurance measure, for both of our sakes. I could have given her the letter to read, too, but something stopped me; perhaps the realisation that I could not let Hadvar's words speak for me each time I told this tale. "It may come to nothing. I have just received word from the Legion-"

"From Hadvar?" her brows furrowed; probably wondering why such a thing could be cause for alarm.

I nodded. "Yes. He sent me a rushed note, warning me of a rumour circulating the armies, that found its way to his camp."

Lydia arched her eyebrow, but didn't interrupt me again.

I sighed. "The Stormcloaks are saying that the Dragonborn has joined Ulfric's cause."

" _What_?" she leapt up.

"Shh," I urged, casting my own glance in the direction of the Jarl's throne, even though I couldn't see it from our darkened corner. I drew her back down to the bench, giving her hands another squeeze. "It's not true."

Lydia tilted her head, her brows crossing even more as she looked me up and down. "Of course it's not. I'm surprised that you're not more angry about it, though."

"I _was_ furious," I conceded. "I took the head off a training dummy," I murmured.

Lydia huffed, though given what I had just told her, there was no amusement in it. "What is your plan?" she directed me back to the present.

I nodded appreciatively. "To spread the word throughout Whiterun, _before_ the rumour reaches here."

"I see," Lydia considered, and I felt the tension in her arms ease a little. "Circulate the falsity of the claim now, so there is no surprise or doubt when it arrives. Good," she nodded. "And abroad?"

I shrugged, half-smiling helplessly. "I'm not sure I can make people outside of Whiterun believe anything. They don't even know me; only that I exist, and possibly my name. But, Kodlak believes that if the rumour threatens the Legion's efforts, they will act upon it."

Lydia nodded again, this time more speculatively as her eyes drifted to the flagstones; her mind ticking over the task ahead. "True enough. But it is a shame that we can't do more," she bit her bottom lip, still deep in thought.

"I mean to speak to the Jarl about it now," I let go of her hands, and rose. "Will you come?"

Her eye turned up; focusing on me, drawing her out of her reverie. "Always," she spoke steadily, standing as well. "Perhaps together, we can devise a plan that might squash the rumour outside of Whiterun," she was still fixed on this point.

We commenced our walk to the Jarl's throne, though continued our discussion in low voices.

"Kodlak believes that the rumour will die out naturally," I explained. "He says that men and women don't sign their lives away for an idea, and will want to see proof that I am with Stormcloak."

Lydia chewed on this idea, but didn't seem satisfied. "I don't know," she shook her head. "As you said, most of Skyrim knows only of your existence, and nothing of who you are," she posed. "This may be the push that many of the Nords need to choose their side."

I cursed in an undertone. "And when they can't parade me to their armies?"

"They may find another," Lydia supplied. "Any woman meeting your description, who can speak with conviction."

My heart plummeted; of course, they could dress anybody up to be their Dragonborn, to give credibility to their claim, so long as I was buried away with the Companions in Whiterun.

"They won't be able to shout, or understand the language of the dragons," I reached. "The soldiers will demand proof that she is the Dragonborn."

"Will they?" Lydia queried. "I believe that you are Dragonborn on your word alone."

"Yes, but you _know_ me," I insisted.

"Most of Whiterun believe it with your word, and that of the few guards who were witness to your shout at the Western watchtower," she continued reasonably. "Your story has been met with nothing short of astonished reverence, everywhere it's been told, because people _want_ to believe in you," she pointed out. "Just as those who sign their lives over to the Stormcloaks will _want_ to believe you are with them."

I closed my eyes a moment as her crushing point made me shudder. We had just reached the great, long hearth before the Jarl's throne, so we didn't speak again, and I used what remained of our walk to compose myself, though my heart continued to thud madly in my chest.

Lydia was right. It would be a very simple thing for the Stormcloaks to dress any slight, dark-haired woman as the Dragonborn. They could talk amongst themselves of her thu'um and prowess, and she could stand and deliver songs and motivational stories whenever necessary. Sure, there would be questions from those who heard the truth; that I was a Companion, training in Whiterun, but the Stormcloaks could just as easily call _me_ a fabrication of the Legion's, as I could any false Dragonborn they produced.

The Jarl had two townspeople before him, so Lydia and I moved to one of the long tables, waiting our turn. I stared at the fine, polished oaken beams and rich tapestry runner, noting their quality but not really taking anything beyond my own worries in, as my mind spiralled around the problem, coming to no workable solution beyond joining the Legion to settle the matter, once and for all.

"Thane Passero?" Proventus leaned down, invading my line of sight, saying my name in a tone that suggested it wasn't the first time he had called for me.

"Yes?" I glanced up hurriedly.

"The Jarl will see you now."

I nodded my thanks and rose, smoothing down my training tunic, and belatedly regretted that I had not made some effort to change before I had approached Dragonsreach. There was nothing for it now, and he would excuse my appearance, and appreciate my haste in coming to him, when he heard my news.

Lydia fell into step behind me; a warm presence at my back, at once lending me some much-needed confidence. I was very grateful that I had come upon her in the entryway, despite the thread of our discussion since.

Keeping my eyes respectfully lowered, once I had reached the centre point of the audience chamber, I knelt before the Jarl.

"Celeste," he acknowledged; his warm tones filled with a contented surprise. "The Companions have given you a moment's breath to visit your Jarl?"

I raised my eyes to him, wishing that I could meet his easy satisfaction in kind, but my chest was still too constricted by the weight of the rumour to even smile as I replied. "I apologise for staying away for so long."

"You may rise," he said blithely, then shook his head. "You do not need to justify your actions to me, on this account, young one," he continued. "Your display of single-mindedness when a goal has been set before you is to be commended. I have been kept well informed of your success, by your Harbinger," he added amiably.

This was news to me; I stood a little taller, blinking as I took in what he had said, finding it a place in my thoughts amongst the reeling mess that concerned the rumour and what must be done. Kodlak was speaking to the Jarl about me? "I am grateful that my efforts please you," I managed. A shuffle to my side; Lydia shifted into my peripheral, and reminded me why I was there.

The Jarl must have realised that I was not on a social call. "What pleases me is conviction, Thane Passero. Now," he motioned for me to approach him. "Speak of whatever it is that you are here to tell me."

"Thank you," I ascended the stairs and stood on the landing before him, clasping my hands together. Without further ceremony – recollecting that Jarl Balgruuf grew impatient when matters were unnecessarily drawn out – I explained what I had related to Lydia moments ago.

He listened all the while, never interrupting me; his chin resting thoughtfully on his hand and his eyes narrowed and watchful.

I told him everything; not only the relevant contents of Hadvar's letter, but also of Kodlak's advice, and of Lydia's probable assumption.

When I came to the end, I offered him an apology, lowering my eyes. "I'm sorry, Jarl Balgruuf," I concluded. "I am uncertain of when this rumour will reach Whiterun; I only know that it will, and I endeavour now to precede it. I would be guided by your experience and wisdom, should you wish to assist me in my plight."

There was a pregnant pause. I heard the rich material of the Jarl's robes shuffling and the muted steps of Farengar walking about his office within it. I closed my lowered eyes, modulating my breaths, both eager and terrified to know what the Jarl would make of this, and what he might order me to do, to squash it.

"Celeste," he intoned eventually. I raised my eyes at once. There was a little sympathy there, but for the most part, his eyes were indignant; his nostrils flared.

"Do you wish to go to war?" he asked directly.

I shook my head. "As you do, I wish to remain neutral," I replied at once.

"But should the time come to choose a side, with no third option available to you, you would side with the Legion?" he continued.

I wondered where he was headed with this line of questioning, because he undoubtedly already knew the answer. I nodded anyway.

He lapsed into silence again, turning to Irileth with a grim turn of his mouth. The Dunmer's startlingly red eyes were like pools of fire; blazing furiously, though she had remained silent all the while. Some unspoken message passed between them.

"You have heard nothing of this rumour?" he asked her finally.

"No, my Jarl."

"You have heard nothing of the Dragonborn's activities at all, in the whispers that reach your ears?" he added.

" _No_ , my Jarl," Irileth repeated firmly.

"Her allegiance?" the Jarl fired. "Her whereabouts? Nothing?"

"Only that which I witnessed myself, repeated," her eyes fell to me; still hard. "And word of a situation that occurred at the Bannered Mare several nights passed, irrelevant to the war."

In turn, he asked all of his attending housecarls and stewards what they had heard of the Dragonborn. I glanced at each, feeling numbed, and removed from the situation, as they replied similarly to Irileth.

Finally, after calling a perplexed Farengar out of his office to ask him the same, the Jarl sat back on his throne and grumbled, "We have done this to you."

"My Jarl?" I crossed my brows. "You have protected me. The Stormcloaks are responsible-"

He held out his hand for me to stop, then fixed me with his icy-blue stare. "The Stormcloaks are taking advantage of a situation; one created by my desire to protect you while you have been unable to defend yourself. I allowed you to remain obscure under Kodlak Whitemane's wing, and Skyrim, left wanting for their Dragonborn, has begun to make up its own stories of your exploits."

I flushed, lowering my head; his speech notifying me that he _had_ , at least in part, promoted me to Thane out of respect for my father, for he had no need or duty to safeguard me otherwise. But for this, I was grateful. "I begged you to allow me to remain in Whiterun. Do not cast blame where it doesn't lie, my Jarl; if anyone is responsible for my concealment, it is I."

"I will summon couriers and criers at once," he concluded, moving on from his summation. I was uncertain if he had taken my words on board or not. The Jarl sat up straighter in his seat, his eyes falling to Proventus, by his right arm.

"I charge you with the details, Proventus. Have a missive prepared, for immediate circulation, that the Dragonborn, Celeste Passero, was elevated to the position of Thane of Whiterun, for services rendered to the people of our Hold, including her instrumental role in the dragon incident at the Western watchtower. We should have made it known weeks ago," his eyes settled on me again; narrowed, but it was clear that his irritation was not aimed at me.

"At once, my Jarl," Proventus bowed and made to retreat.

"Add that any citizen of Skyrim being tormented by a dragon might direct their pleas for assistance to Dragonsreach directly, where Thane Passero is abiding."

I gaped, shooting Lydia a quick glance; she was wearing a schooled mask and betrayed no reaction. "Jarl Balgruuf, thank you, but I have a home," I stammered, vaguely aware that Proventus Avenicci had completed his bow and had now left to fulfil his task.

"Yes. And now you have another place where you may rest your head should you wish it," he finished for me swiftly. "You are the Dragonborn, and _my_ Thane," he added, somewhat roughly. "Rooms shall be prepared for you, your housecarl and her daughter, to accommodate when you see fit, and all letters of enquiry shall be delivered to these rooms for you to reply as you see fit."

I nodded, closing my mouth, unwilling to contradict the Jarl. He was taking charge of the rumour; grabbing onto it firmly in his efforts to help me. With an odd sense of irony, I recalled how I had wished for the Jarl to accommodate me in Dragonsreach, all those weeks ago when I had first arrived in Whiterun and had no bed. Almost month had passed since then, and I was suddenly spoilt for choice.

"You honour me beyond that which I deserve," I insisted quietly. "But I am ever grateful for your patronage, my Jarl."

"It is time for Skyrim to know you. Know where you are," the Jarl concluded in a still aggravated grumble, "and who you have sworn allegiance to."

I lowered my head respectfully, realising finally that his anger, or at least some of it, could be attributed to _jealousy_. He was jealous that the Stormcloaks had laid this claim on me, when he, and the Companions, were the only with a right to do so.

This awareness of my position somewhat pressed and pulled at me, making me feel like a pawn; a rag-doll being tugged hither and thither. I clenched my eyes closed and sternly told myself to stop being so feeble-minded. Jarl Balgruuf and Kodlak had sheltered me, at my own request, not demanded that I serve them! They _did_ have claim on me, and not only through a myriad of titles and hierarchies. Both had a firm claim on my loyalty, which I gave to them freely; a claim that I _would_ have told to the far reaches of Skyrim and beyond; one that I would unfalteringly stand up to protect, and defend against whatever met me in the future.

I raised my head; the extent of my troth overwhelming me with a bright, heady emotion akin to pride. "Thank you," I said quietly, truthfully.

The Jarl lost some of the militance to his manner as he glanced over me, and then he half-smiled, briefly, in reply.

"You shall have the pick of my finest guest rooms, Celeste," he determined. "Go now with my daughter, and make your decision known to her," he motioned to someone beyond, and after a moment a tall, slightly pudgy, pretty girl of about twelve years joined us. She had chestnut-blonde hair, twisted into two braids nestled at the back of her neck, and wore a fine, straight dress of burgundy velvet with white lace sleeves encasing her arms to the wrist.

"Father?" she curtsied. I detected a hint of boredom to her tone.

I stared at the girl-child; I had never seen, or heard of the Jarl's daughter before this moment. Where had she been hiding? Where was her mother? Did he have more children?

"Dagny, take Thane Passero to the upper levels and show her the guest rooms. She is to take residence of whichever room she deems meets her need. Return to me with her decision at once," he decreed.

"As you like, Father," she sighed this time, somewhat sullenly I thought, then turned her canny, hazel eyes on me. "This way," she motioned toward the staircase that I knew lead to the war room, then started toward it, not minding to look back and see if I was following.

I hastened after the girl; Lydia a step behind me, as ever. Dagny lead us across the war room and up another flight of stairs. She spoke frequently, and haughtily, and I didn't miss how her assessing eyes glanced over my inexpensive training garb, openly judgemental, nor how her lips curled into a grimace when she glanced to my Legion boots.

" _You're_ the _Dragonborn_?" she asked me at once point with extreme doubt, punctuated by a raising of her thin eyebrow.

"Yes, that's right," I managed with as much air as I could muster under the circumstances.

"And what exactly were you, before that?" she all but sneered.

I felt Lydia tense behind me, but knew she would not dare reprimand a Jarl's daughter. I was on my own, in fielding this little sabrecat.

Placing a consoling hand on Lydia's arm for a moment, I smiled warmly at Dagny, reasoning that I could befriend her, if I chose my words carefully. "Of course. We haven't been properly introduced, have we?" I curtsied to the girl, in the respectful manner I had given her more deserving father. "I am Celeste Passero, daughter of Samuel Passero, who was Thane to the High King of Skyrim. Before I was Dragonborn, I lived in Solitude," I smiled.

The disdain in her hazel eyes flashed with a hint of longing, but she blinked and it was gone. She turned and 'hmphed', leading Lydia and I on, up another flight of stairs.

I cast Lydia a smile, knowing that the girl had been somewhat shamed into a temporary silence, though I knew her type from my former life. It wouldn't last.

When next she spoke, Dagny sounded bored, indicating rooms behind closed doors. "Over there are my rooms, and my brothers' own the next two. _That's_ father's wing," she indicated an open, arched doorway which showed a richly-furnished sitting room, "which you may _not_ have, no matter how he bestows _favours_ on you," she cast me a suspicious glare.

I nodded soberly to the girl, though I wanted to laugh at her apparent reason for disliking me! "I would never presume-"

"Of course you wouldn't," she muttered dismissively, with some sarcasm behind her response. She led us on to another set of double-doors, which revealed a furnished hallway containing doors on both walls. "If you are to have any room, you may choose from those on the right of this hallway. Those on the left are already occupied, by father's housecarls and stewards."

With that, Dagny flounced onto one of the carved bench seats littering the hallway, evidently determining that her duty to me was done for now, and she only had to await my decision before she could be free of me.

Lydia and I continued alone. The moment we were inside of the first room, which was a drawing room before a single bedroom, she rounded on me.

"You are not serious about _living_ here?" she asked, a pleading note to her otherwise straight question. "The Jarl does not ask his Thanes to live with him – this appointment _will_ fuel rumours-"

"Please," I took her hands, giving her an imploring glance. "I didn't ask for this," I looked around the room we were in. "I just...couldn't see any reason to refuse him. I am _very_ grateful for all the Jarl has done for me," I told her honestly. "And I will not insult him."

Lydia turned her eyes down, considering. "I suppose it would be useful to have somewhere for the people of Skyrim to address letters, so that Breezehome isn't overcome."

I nodded, releasing her. "We don't have to _use_ it. And poor little Lucia would get lost in the labyrinth of hallways we just traversed," I walked forward, glancing about and wincing at the room's bright, somewhat offensive décor. I pressed on to check the bedroom, though I had already made up my mind to not take this one. "I would never quit Breezehome," I shuddered at the equally-lavish bedroom, turning back to Lydia, who was the only inoffensive thing in the room, and still by my side. "Not for all the castles of all the Lords in all of Tamriel."

She smiled, genuinely, chucking her arm over my shoulder. "Me either. Come on," she turned me away from the bright bedroom with a dramatic sigh. "We must endeavour to complete this solemn quest before us forthwith, lest the Princess be left to idle in the hallway with none to lavish attention on her."

I snorted a laugh as Lydia dropped her arm, and we left the bright room to step back into the dull hallway, proceeding to each room until we located one that we could comfortably sit and sleep in, should a time come that it be required I remain in Dragonsreach.

It was at the very end of the hallway, and made smaller than the other rooms by the roundness of the far wall, clearly in sympathy to the outer wall's architecture. Like all other rooms, the inner walls were a combination of plastered white, and carved wooden panels, as was the traditional Nord fashion for homes of antiquity. There were high ceilings crossed with thick wooden beams, from which a series of hanging lanterns drooped; all cold and unlit. The room was aired and dust-free, so it was clear that it was being managed by Dragonsreach's staff, but it must have been seldom used, given its small aspect and general feeling of abandonment.

It was this feeling that drew me to take it, ultimately, for I felt its potential had been overlooked. The drawing room, furnished in a natural maple wood with cream, dove-grey and ivory linens draped throughout, led to two separate bedrooms. The maple furniture and muted colours continued, giving the chambers an airy feeling. The master bedroom contained an enormous, double-glazed window behind the bed, portraying a beautiful midday vista of the vast, rich green and golden plains beyond the city walls, and the purpled mountain ranges beyond that. The sky was azure, creased with thin, straight lines of pure white clouds close to the horizon. The brilliant scene contrasted exquisitely with the soft tone of the chamber.

This felt like a room that a _version_ of myself could live in; reminiscent of my life in Solitude, when everything _had_ been fine polished woodwork and elegant fabrics, where I had spent my days absorbed in music and the arts. What a privileged life I had led, without even realising it to be so. Had I once been perceived as spoilt, like Dagny?

These thoughts were still in my mind when Lydia and I, having made our mutual decision to take the end room, returned to the petulant girl. She had, in our prolonged absence, plucked the flowers from a nearby potted dragon's tongue plant, and had been weaving a wreath from the orange blooms, which looked like a ball of stilled fire against the deep, shifting reds of her dress.

"Finally," she muttered as we joined her, rising with her flower wreath clutched before her, almost defensively. "Did you check _every_ room?" she asked with some annoyance.

"We did," I inclined my head toward her, suddenly feeling a little sorry for her; or rather, for our making fun of her earlier. She was a product of her upbringing, but still just a child. And I was certainly in no position to judge her. "Thank you for your patience," I decided to be kind in the face of her snapping, for I doubted that aside from her father, the girl saw much true kindness from anybody.

"And?" she prompted, turning to face me fully; her eyes expectant.

I smiled easily in reply, and told her which room we had decided to take.

She seemed confused, for an instant, and then her trademark sneer returned. "But of course, somebody who lived in _Solitude_ would be used to living in small spaces," she scorned, and turned to lead us back to the throne room.

"On the contrary," I fell into step beside her, determined to not be fazed by her attempt at snobbery. "Proudspire Manor, my father's house – now mine –" cast her a pointed glance, "contains three levels of rooms, made from the very same slate, granite and mortar that the Blue Palace is wrought from. It overlooks the Sea of Ghosts and the Palace itself of course," I sighed, calling back on what I could for the sake of this challenge Dagny had awakened in me, though my amusement swiftly quailed as my heart took hold of my recollections. "At the college festivals, of which there are _many_ , you could sit on one of the third floor balconies, and watch the fire sprites as they were carried away below you, like a glittering, living stream that rushed to join the sea, and the music and dancing would carry on until sunrise..." I sighed, determining that I had said enough, for I did not wish to be reminded further of that fanciful life now behind me.

Dagny didn't respond at once, though I felt her eyes on me. I didn't meet her questing glances with my own for a time.

"Why would anybody choose to leave such a place?" she asked eventually; her tone still mocking.

Perhaps it was merely her usual tone, I told myself with an internal sigh. "I meant to go to my grandparents in the Imperial City," I suddenly wondered why I had allowed myself be roused and exposed by a peevish twelve-year-old. "But then – this Dragonborn business happened. So I must remain, whether I am wanted, or not," I gave her a sideways glance finally.

Her hazel gaze was still observing me, also sideways, but when I met her eye this time, she looked away hastily. She turned us down a staircase, but she chose not to reply to me. We were in the war room suddenly and it came upon me that there was no way I would remember how to find our room. I hoped that Lydia had been paying attention.

Once I had taken my leave of Dragonsreach, and Lydia, I made my way back to Jorrvaskr alone, feeling more subdued than I had when I had left Kodlak and Farkas. The reminder of the life I had once led was not as shocking to me as it might have been had I recalled it prior, but it was still a cause for melancholy and regret, in what I had taken for granted, and what I could never have, in its whole, ever again. Returning to the Bard's college and completing my final year seemed as out of reach as becoming a legendary warrior, somehow.

Farkas had not been overly busy while I had been away, though the large Nord seemed flustered enough by the two jobs he had taken down. He thrust the key back into my hand, explaining the details of the jobs that had come in. I didn't want to offend him by checking his work, so I merely thanked him quietly and threaded the key back onto my chain.

"Also, I fixed the training dummy," he swung his hand out to indicate the figure I had decapitated earlier.

The sight of the wooden dummy, its head secured lower to its neck pole than any of its brothers with strips of leather, lightened the mood a little, making me smile.

I placed my hand on Farkas' forearm in thanks. "That was my job," I raised an eyebrow to him.

"You would have just bungled it," he flashed me a half-smirk. "Ready to get back to work after all your slacking off?"

"Soon, but first," I sighed, lowering my hand. "I must tell you about a letter I received this morning."

–

The rumour arrived in Whiterun three days later, but as the Jarl had seen to circulating my whereabouts and activities prior, and as I had been telling all who would hear me of the approaching rumour's falsity, it was snuffed out as swiftly as it had blown in. Not even the Grey-Manes, for all their open Stormcloak support, seemed to hold any hope in its accuracy; their glares grew somewhat more spiteful toward me when we happened to pass each other in the street. Within Jorrvaskr, Vignar avoided me entirely.

Yet still, two days later, another rumour reached the town to cast doubt on all we had striven to repair, and rally the confidence of the people who wished to believe I had secretly sided with the usurper. Word had it that the Dragonborn had been part of a raid of the ancient Nordic ruin, Korvanjund, which was only a day's march north of Whiterun. It was said that I had led the Stormcloaks to seize the Jagged Crown, only to have it stolen by the Imperials once we had emerged victorious.

On the edge of my awareness, as Kodlak related this latest rumour to me one morning, I realised this must have been the artefact Hadvar's platoon had been searching for; had he not mentioned it to be a crown? Had he been present – had he seen who the Stormcloaks had created in my place for himself?

With Lydia's fears confirmed – the Stormcloaks _did_ have an analogue female playing the part of Dragonborn for their own machinations – I felt a keen sense of disgust in the woman who had sold her soul, and her name, to adopt mine so blithely and do _Ulfric's_ work.

"Calm yourself, little dove," Kodlak schooled kindly. "As with the preceding rumour, this one will disperse within these walls."

I drew my gaze toward him, from the nothings I had been staring at while I had simmered silently. "I am calm," I assured him steadily.

The old warrior gave me a crooked smile. "Your eyes, and heart, tell a different story."

I bristled at this reminder that I was always to be exposed to the Circle, but there was no point in denying his superior senses. He did not want to know my feelings, I reminded myself. It was not Kodlak's fault. I leaned back in my seat, staring to the ceiling, and took some deep, calming breaths; the first of which was exhaled as a furious rush of hot air.

"I wish to meet this woman they have acting my part," I told Kodlak, though I felt more calm than I had for my momentary pause. I turned back to the Harbinger, and stared straight into those knowing, silvery depths as I continued. "I wish to look her in the eye, and ask her if Ulfric killed _her_ parents. When I have my answer from her, I will _FUS_ her across the room."

Kodlak chuckled, placing a hand on my shoulder. "As would be your right, I expect. But beware seeking vengeance for vengeance's sake, little dove, for it builds a tower of retribution on precarious foundations. Built it too high, and it will topple down on those who constructed it."

As always with Kodlak, I felt that there was something more to what he was relating; perhaps he intended a lesson for me behind his words, or perhaps not. Did he know of Aela and Farkas' midnight journeys to continue seeking their justice for what had happened to Skjor? He must have, by now, yet still they ventured forth. Or did he know of, and warn me of my ultimate, personal quest, to hunt down Ulfric Stormcloak and use his thu'um against him once I had mastered it?

Kodlak was my superior, in experience and situation, so I clamped down on my pique and merely nodded, thanking him for advising me of this latest rumour. I returned to the yard, where Farkas was waiting for me.

Farkas and I spoke little for the rest of the day, and instead put all of our efforts into our training. He seemed as absorbed by his thoughts as I was, though I doubted that the man was vexed over the same piece of information that I was.

During one of our breaks, late in the afternoon, where I marked a job of Njada's complete and gave the woman her money, I closed the book and caught sight of Farkas in the failing light.

I frowned. His shoulders were slumped; his face was turned up, searching the horizon. In regarding his tired-looking, grim face, I berated myself for internalising yet again, when I had promised to notice, and assist my shield-siblings where I might.

I stood, moving to join him in the centre of the yard, and readied my stance to resume our short sword session. Through his guidance, or perhaps through my gaining some small strength of muscle, I was now able to wield it for periods of time with one hand.

"Are you worried about him?" I asked Farkas, assuming that his thoughts were on his brother. Vilkas had been gone for almost two weeks now, though Kodlak had assured me that there was no reason for concern when I had mentioned it to him. He had said that Vilkas was the sort of man who took his time with a task; who scouted his target from a distance, and waited for the right moment to strike.

I had shuddered at the darkness Kodlak had invoked with this picture he had painted of Vilkas, and I shuddered now as Farkas' eyes turned down to me sadly; the usually open, merry face one of tormented guilt.

He raised his sword to meet mine. "I don't know," he admitted. "I worry about a lot of things."

The touch of his sword was his unspoken direction to commence my attack. I swung high, restarting the form I had first been taught by my current teacher's brother.

"It's only natural," I continued, managing not to startle for once as Farkas' block met my arcing swing with practised ease. "I have a twin, too," I grit my teeth, pushing against his sword to gain some strength from the pressure for my next movement.

Farkas met it, propelling my sword out of my hand with barely a flick of his wrist.

I cursed, my shoulders slumping as I bent to retrieve it. I met Farkas' eyes when I rose.

"You have a twin?" he looked perplexed. "Brother or sister?"

"Sister," I replied, returning to my previous stance and beginning the form again, now silent. If Farkas wished to speak of an anxiety he felt over his brother's journey, I had laid enough ground for him to do so, but I would not squeeze it out of him.

After a few minutes of sparring, Farkas parried my attack and with a swift turn of his wrist, pushed me back from him with his forearm.

I staggered, fighting to correct my balance before I fell on my behind.

"Where is she?" Farkas asked directly as he watched me righting my position. "She wasn't-?"

"Wayrest," I sighed, holding my sword out before me again, then flushed when I realised how far from him I was; shuffling forward so that I was within attack range. "She's with my mother's parents."

"Do you miss her?" Farkas asked at once.

"Sometimes," I shrugged, touching my blade to his that I would continue. In truth, I felt it nearly impossible to _miss_ Giselle; we had been of separate hearts and minds for so long as to be strangers to one another, but for our common blood.

I attacked, spurred on by my resentment over her ambivalence toward me, when Farkas and Vilkas had, through all of their adversity, remained close. I had found more love amongst the people I had met over the past month than my sister had exhibited toward me over the course of several years.

Farkas blocked my blow with what looked like no effort, then said in a lowered voice. "I hate it when Vilkas is away."

I pushed off him and swept my blade lower. "I can see that. I am quite envious of your devotion to one other."

Farkas mistook my meaning, it seemed. "You think we're too single-minded, don't you?"

"What?" I couldn't hide my confused smile at his odd reply, though it felt as though Farkas had used my flippant statement as an excuse to speak something that was plaguing him. Now we were getting somewhere.

I lowered my sword, holding my hand up for a break, realising that I was panting from exertion. Holding conversation and sparring was strangely exhausting. "I meant that I wish my sister loved me," I gasped, putting my hands on my hips as I leaned over slightly to capture my breath.

"Oh," Farkas replied, his cheeks adopting a redness that I realised, with a start, was embarrassment. Warning bells sounded in my mind at the sight; something was _very_ wrong.

"Farkas, what is the matter?" I let my sword fall to the ground, closing the space between him and embracing him in a firm hug; never hesitating and knowing that the gesture _would_ be wanted, and accepted by him. He was too good natured to rebuke it, and at that moment seemed more like a kicked puppy than a fearsome predator.

After his startle at being touched, which I had expected and accounted for, Farkas sank into my arms, resting his chin on the top of my head. "Celeste, I've done wrong," he grumbled simply. "I couldn't see it before. But last night we – Aela and I, I mean..." he stopped short. I felt all of the muscles in his body suddenly tense.

"It's all right," I encouraged, pulling back from him. "Go to Kodlak, and tell him all. He'll know-"

"Quiet!" he hissed hurriedly.

Startled by his sudden ferocity, I lowered my hands and looked to him properly. His whole body seemed taut; his eyes were narrowed and coloured on that dangerous brink between silver and gold. He was staring above me; at some point beyond me, and completely still.

I spun around, seeing nothing but the curls of smoke rising from the Skyforge, and Dragonsreach behind that.

Hesitantly, I turned back to Farkas, raising an eyebrow. "What-?" I whispered.

"Run," he growled, sounding more beast than man, stepping forward and pushing me toward Jorrvaskr.

I stumbled and landed on my hands and knees, turning back to him at once as acute fear leapt into my throat, choking my words. "Farkas, what is happening?"

He leaned down to grab my cast off training short sword in his free hand, wielding both his and mine now, as the doors to Jorrvaskr burst open. I whirled around in the dust like a startled doe, and saw both Kodlak and Aela hurtle out of the building. Their eyes were livid; their expressions blazing with ire. On Aela's face it made the fierce warrior look as imposing as I had ever seen her, but seeing it on _Kodlak's_ features twisted my heart and made me scramble back in horror. Other Companions not of the Circle filed out after the pair, their weapons at the ready, but they seemed as confused as I felt.

Aela paid me no mind as usual, but Kodlak's eyes burned a savage gold as they noticed me.

"Go home!" he commanded, effortlessly dragging me to my feet then pushing past me with his battleaxe raised.

"I _am_ home!" spun around, grabbing his arm and meeting his enraged eyes with pleading ones.

"Then get inside!" he ordered in a growl, shaking off my hold, but the contact, or perhaps my fear, seemed to have mollified him a little. He glanced toward the Skyforge hastily, then turned back to me. "If you will not leave us, you must hurry inside. They are coming. Lock yourself in my room," he said in a lower, rushed voice, handing me a key from some recess in his armour.

He placed the key in my palm, and then met my eyes again, pleading; no trace of gold remaining.

I hesitated still, biting my bottom lip as an awareness as sharp and painful to my heart as a spear told me that if I ran and hid, like a coward, I would never see him again.

Overwhelmed by the notion, I shook my head, but Kodlak had already left me to join Aela, Farkas, and the other Companions.

 _I am a Companion,_ I insisted. _I will not leave them._

I raced to grab my bow and what arrows I had left in the quiver from target practise. The sound of stone scraping against stone cracked through the charged afternoon air like a whip, and I turned, raising my bow, arrow at the ready to defend those I cared for with my life against whatever emerged from the underforge.


	28. All Towers Must Topple

_Chapter 28: All Towers Must Topple_

By nightfall the raid was over, and the price for Farkas and Aela's orgy of vengeance been paid.

The Silver Hand had swept through Jorrvaskr like a plague, but their intention had not been to fight us. That had been clear from the start, or we might have all been brought down in a matter of minutes. Those who had emerged from the underforge with torches blazing and arms at the ready had scattered, rather than charging for us as a front as an attacking army would have done, confusing those waiting to meet them.

They did not mean to eradicate us, for who would be left to taunt if they did? No, they were here on another purpose; to steal the fragments of Wuuthrad, the Companions' sacred axe forged by Ysgramor's son, which the Companions had been returning piece by piece.

The order was evidently not to kill on sight, but to attack any who got in the way of their goal.

I glanced to the wall, not really seeing the space where Wuuthrad's pieces had been set, recalling bitterly that an hour ago, it had almost been complete.

That the axe even mattered, in light of the night's true losses.

I shuddered a breath, utterly exhausted, with Silver Hand blood drying on my clothes and skin. My hands were clasped around the limp, lifeless hand of Kodlak Whitemane. I stared down to his peaceful face searching for guidance, willing him to say something. To open his eyes; to just _breathe_.

Nothing happened, and I clenched my eyes closed. Everywhere I looked caused pain. I had closed Kodlak's eyes when I had knelt by him earlier. They were not going to reopen.

A vice gripped my chest as I squeezed his hand again, willing, _praying_ for him to return the pressure. Was it hopeless to imagine it possible for a strength of spirit such as his might still recover, after all this time?

I witnessed the death-blow that had sealed his fate, yet again; a cruel replay in my head as an emotionless force within tried to make me acknowledge what I had seen. It had been as fast as the strike that had killed my own father; a sure stab from the side that none of us had seen coming.

I felt the weight of Kodlak's sudden departure now as I had my father's, as I had knelt over him that night at the Blue Palace. My eyes, though clenched closed, were clear, and my tears unshed, though I didn't repress what I felt for a second. It was as though any tears that might have gathered had been stunned into withdrawal.

Time took on a strange, dream-like quality. Everything about the battle had been so fast – so frantic and furious – and then Kodlak had been attacked. I had seen red, but when I had turned back to him, hoping to see Kodlak being attended to by my shield-siblings, it had not been the case.

He had died while I had been fighting. Time had slowed down when I had staggered and crashed to my knees beside him.

And now, time had stopped. This might be a single moment in a hazy second I had found myself trapped in, and if only I could find some way to make time resume ticking, Kodlak might breathe again. But I knew not how to escape it.

I saw and heard nothing until a presence joined me; shifted beside me. A knee brushed my leg. Large hands encased and held mine around Kodlak's; the rough calluses on the fingers and palms scratchy as they quaked, and squeezed.

"How did this happen?" he spoke – begged – in a voice full of unrestrained suffering.

The accent was familiar. It held a tiny, flickering light of recognition to my senses, tugging me back from the repetitious abyss I stood before, and anchoring me to the ruthless world of those who were left behind.

I turned and saw Vilkas, travel-weary and worn in body, with his handsome face twisted and furrowed into an anguished mask of terror. I met his tear-filled, silvery eyes, and stared.

What else he was saying? I could see his lips moving, but could hear no words being spoken. Perhaps he said nothing, and his lips quivered on their own accord.

My thoughts began to catch up to where I was. Wasn't he away? His hands felt real. But no. Vilkas was travelling. Perhaps the past hour had been nothing but a horrific dream, and soon I would wake and rush into the common area to find Kodlak at his desk, writing in his journal and smiling gently as I sat by him.

"Is that really you?" I whispered hoarsely, squinting through the hazy gloom. "You're back?"

He said nothing at first, but lowered his eyes. After a shuddering exhale, he replied with, "Yes. But, too late, it seems."

It was unfair of me to think it, but I agreed with him. _If only you had been here an hour sooner,_ I thought _._ My unspoken barb whipped me back to the now as my blood surged through my ears at the injustice, the _horrible_ timing of his return. _Where were you,_ I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn't find the will or voice to do so.

And it would do no good to rage at poor Vilkas. He had been exactly where he should have been, and had succeeded if the lumpy sack on his other side contained what I thought it did.

"You did it?" my gaze flitted from the bag, back to my shield-brother. "You retrieved-?"

Vilkas shook his head emphatically, shaking away his tears in the process as he squeezed my – and Kodlak's – hands again more urgently. "Don't," his voice was all command, broken by a choke. "Not now. Tell me what happened here," he ordered with an edge of desperation.

"They came for Wuuthrad," I told him in a voice that cracked and scorched my throat. I swallowed heavily, dryly, looking back to the empty wall where its pieces had sat, seeing the blankness properly this time, and recalling those agonising final moments with vicious clarity.

Vilkas was waiting for his response; his eyes expectantent and impatiently fixed on me.

He had to know all of what had happened. Now he was here, he could help track them and deliver a truer, swifter vengeance to the Silver Hand.

"They could have killed us all," I wavered as my focus drifted back to Kodlak's serenity; his weathered face and silvery-white whiskers. He was a true Nord warrior, even in death. He had died in battle, and was worthy of direct admittance to Sovngarde. His eyes, closed, and his face so calm, gave him the impression of one sleeping. He had always seemed to regret that he had been unable to rest.

And now he never would. His soul was condemned to Hircine's hunting ground, because we had not been able to cure their curse before this horrible night had fallen.

 _This_ thought brought the tears to my eyes. This was worse, _far_ worse than my father's murder, for while it had been horrible, I had at least known that my beloved father would ascend to an afterlife his soul deserved.

Whereas Kodlak had suffered a lengthy sentence, and was still to be denied his solace. I gasped out a sob, wrenching my hands free of Vilkas and leaning over Kodlak's body; burying my face in his chest. "They killed him, and they killed Ria!" I cried. "It was over so quickly," I burst out in the quiet mead hall as my heart wailed and my chest heaved; but while they pooled, no tears fell.

–

 _We burst into Jorrvaskr once we realised where the Silver Hand were headed. I stepped into the recess where the accounts book and gold were stowed at night, for cover. I lifted my bow, glancing about for my shield-siblings. I had no idea what had become of Farkas or Aela, but Kodlak had raced into the mead hall before me and I would keep with him._

 _The hall was full of foreign bodies and chaos. Not only Silver Hand, but also Whiterun guards from Dragonsreach, alerted by the sounds of battle, who had joined in the fray at the defence of the Companions._

 _The Silver Hand's focus seemed to be on defending two men. My sights fell to them; my arrow trained. There was a small man, possibly a Breton, on the shoulders of a larger Nord. The smaller was taking the fragments of Wuuthrad from their setting, hurriedly passing each down to the man supporting him. The Nord was subsequently, unceremoniously stuffing the precious fragments into a backpack._

 _There was a cry closer by, and I fired on one of the defenders of these men; a woman, running straight for Kodlak with her axe raised. My arrow struck her cheek and propelled her sideways; Kodlak delivered a finishing blow to her temple as he pushed past her toppling form._

 _Drawing another arrow, I placed it with shaking hands and watched as Ria and Torvar tore through the line of defence, preceding Kodlak. The invaders scattered, darting out of arm's reach, and I fired upon another as he leaned back against a side table. This time my arrow found its mark; impacting the side of the man's chest. He fell, gasping and clutching the arrow shaft with wide eyes and blood-soaked lips as he coughed. Nobody paid him any mind; neither to help nor to finish him off. I averted my eyes with cold clarity as I raised my bow once more; the man was no longer a threat._

 _Kodlak was before the pair stealing the almost-completed Wuuthrad. He roared, swinging his battle axe with his whole body into the side of the Nord supporting the Breton man. The larger man tried to dodge, but it was no use. The blow landed; the man crumpled, and the smaller man who had been on his shoulders agilely leapt away, using the larger man's fall to propel him out of reach._

 _The Harbinger swung again; his axe came down across the Nord's skull, shattering it. There was a scream; the Breton had been leapt upon by Ria. She had pinned his arm to the table he had landed on with her dagger. The pair grappled and I aimed, knowing that it was useless to fire when they were so close to each other. I couldn't risk hitting her. She could handle one man._

 _I set my sights back on Kodlak and his surrounds. The Harbinger reached down, retrieving the pack containing the fragments of Wuuthrad from the grasp of the dead Silver Hand. In the corner of my vision, I saw Ria finally drive her sword down, spearing the Breton through his chest. She leapt off the table as she tugged it free with a grunt of effort._

 _The end of the mead hall was clear, and with the immediate danger over, I lowered my bow._

 _I would regret doing so for the rest of my life._

 _At some signal that nobody perceived, three figures descended on Kodlak, and another two on Ria._

 _A man drove a great sword into the side of Kodlak's armour, through one of the seams where only padding and fur covered his flesh. The Harbinger tried to swing, despite the sword piercing him, but a second Silver Hand grabbed his axe and tugged it from his grip, throwing it across the room as the first, with his sword still stuck in Kodlak's side, punched him across the temple. The third attacker grabbed the backpack containing the fragments and bolted. Ria's attackers drove her back onto the table that she had speared the Breton on, and drove their blades into her chest and torso. She didn't have time to counter them before she was run through; she didn't even have time to scream._

 _In the flickering hearthlight of the mead hall, Kodlak's attacker's teeth glinted as he twisted his sword, and drove it harder into Kodlak's side, yelling something about putting an old dog down. The sword tip burst through the other side of Kodlak's body; a spray of his blood accompanying it, driven out by the force of the blow._

 _It all happened so fast, in the space of a single breath; a matter of three agonising seconds._

" _We have it!" the one who had grabbed the bag screamed over the din. "Fall back!" he commanded. The one who had thrown Kodlak's axe retreated, and he with the great sword began to tug it out of the Harbinger's frame._

" _FUS!" I found my voice and screamed at Kodlak's attackers, throwing my bow and arrow to the floor with a clatter and propelling myself over tables and chairs as I ran toward them._

 _Kodlak had crumpled to the ground, unmoved by my thu'um. My shout projected the one who had stuck him away from his side. The mead hall began to empty in a flurry of blurred, darting forms; Ria's attackers left her on the table, with both of their swords still driven through the Imperial's form, pinning her lifeless and bleeding body on top of the Breton man she had slain._

 _The man I had FUS'd crashed down with a cry of pain, landing awkwardly on his back across the edge of a table with a sharp 'CRACK'. His bloodied great sword clanged down onto the tabletop beside him._

 _I leapt up the stairs to the landing and then leapt again onto the man, straddling his chest and arms as I lifted his great sword in both my hands and pressed the blade to his neck._

" _You are a dead man," I snarled at him, tightening my thighs around him as he tried to throw me away. "Tell me where your people are taking Wuuthrad, and I'll make it quick."_

 _The man stopped struggling as I reinforced my hold on his sword, pressing the blade more firmly against his throat and steading it with the flat of my palm, uncaring, unfeeling if the blade sliced me as the adrenaline swelled through my veins like a vicious storm._

" _Speak!" I commanded in a voice full of authority, backed by the soul of a dragon._

 _He stared up at me, perplexed for an instant before his dark brown eyes narrowed. "You're not a dog – ah," he realised, adopting a vicious sneer. "The Companion's pet dragon," he spat at me. I didn't even flinch as the glob of warm saliva landed on and then trailed down my cheek. "I'm not telling you anything, you traitorous bitch."_

" _Then you will be turned," I roared. "And once you have transformed, we will take you to your kind, who will mete out the justice you deserve!" I added icily. "You either die now, by your own sword, or serve Hircine eternally after your colleagues have tortured you."_

 _The man had little courage. After another struggle where he tried to kick me off him, I gave up on trying to reason with him and called for Farkas. I knew that wherever he was, he would hear me._

" _Don't turn me into one of them!" he screeched._

" _Then TALK!" I leaned over him, close to his face; my eyes flashing with fury. "Tell me where they are taking Wuuthrad."_

 _He flinched. Behind me, a world away, I made out the dismayed cries and screams of several of my shield-siblings._

" _Driftshade," he whispered; his eyes flickering with fear as he licked his lips. "They're in Driftshade."_

 _There was no way to tell whether what he said was true, but it was enough to seal his fate. If he lied, then Farkas and Aela would sniff them out._

 _Wordlessly, I pushed the sword down, slicing through the man's throat, uncaring of the warm blood and gore spilling over my hands and knees and splashing across my cheek._

 _The Silver Hand man screamed and then convulsed, and then stilled, but I didn't care, or regret the pain I was causing him. He would pay for what his kind had done, and then he would feel no more._

–

My stomach heaved at the thought of killing that desperate man and inflicting such pain. I had never done anything so horrible, so wilfully torturous, in my entire life. What had I become since I had left Solitude? If I were to look in a mirror, would I recognise myself? I still could not feel regret for the life I had taken; only a subdued horror that such actions had even been possible – which was _worse_.

"Celeste," Vilkas rumbled in a low voice, grasping for my shoulders, encouraging me to rise.

I did not make it easy for him to move me, but when he bodily drew me from Kodlak's frame and turned me swiftly to face him, I whipped my attention to him; my eyes blazing and full of wavering tears, angry that he had drawn me back.

"I _FUS_ 'd the _murderer_ across the mead hall," I told him darkly, grabbing his arms and twisting my shoulders violently so Vilkas would let me go. Despite my fury I was no match for him, and he didn't relinquish his hold. I narrowed my eyes in challenge as I wavered in his grasp, on the verge of using _FUS_ against him.

" _Celeste_ ," Vilkas repeated more clearly, shaking me a little so I would claw back out of my haze. "Now is not the time for stories, but for action," he squared me; quaking with restraint.

His words were as good as a slap to the face. I stared up in anguish, wishing he was anywhere but before me demanding answers. My lower lip quivered as I nodded.

"Where are Aela, and my brother?" he interrogated in a rush.

I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," I whispered. They could have been steps from me, for all I was aware.

"Find them," he barked, releasing my shoulders. He stood, but his hard eyes remained on Kodlak. "Bring them to me."

I sank back on my heels as my hands fell limply into my lap. Glancing at Kodlak, I felt the will to move seep out of me. "Vilkas, please," I choked. "Don't blame them for this."

"Why in Shor's name would I _blame them_?" he thundered.

I bit my tongue and clenched my eyes closed. He hadn't known. He hadn't _been_ here. I shouldn't have said anything. He _would_ blame them, for everything, once he knew.

I stood, clenching my fists by my sides so I wouldn't reach for him. I let my eyes do the imploring. My mind drew a blank, when I should have been able to summon words of consolation, or found some means to soften what our shield-siblings had done in Skjor's memory. How was it that when it mattered, my training failed me?

"Now is not the time to be divided," I spoke finally, in a low voice. "I will go find them, but please – remember that."

He took a step back from me; his eyes flickering over me in what seemed like fear. Then he glanced away swiftly, searching the mead hall. "I should never have left," he murmured regretfully, kneeling by Kodlak's side again.

Fury shot through me, and I shifted past him in a rush.

 _You should have been here,_ I thought again. It was unfair, but I could not help but think it. He could have kept Farkas and Aela in line. He could have stopped the Silver Hand. He could have saved Ria, who had so admired him, and Kodlak, who was like a father to us all.

Internally, I screamed at myself to stop thinking such things. Had I not just told Vilkas that now was not the time to be divided? Casting blame was no way to achieve unity.

I drifted around the room, searching for Farkas and Aela. Ria's body had been laid out on the other side of the hearth, and Athis was bent over her, sobbing into her chest with his hand clenched around her limp one.

She had been so young; so brave, and had been cut down so cruelly. I wavered at her feet, glancing over her peaceful face, remembering how she had always been the first to offer a smile; the first to call out hello. I had gravitated toward her bright, confident, _welcoming_ presence.

Swallowing thickly, I averted my eyes and shuffled on. Vilkas had given me a job.

I located Farkas sitting in a darkened corner of the mead hall. His head was downturned, on his knees; his long, inky hair obscuring his face like a sweat-and-gore slicked veil of mourning. There was blood on his armour, and streaks of it on what I could see of his skin, but I doubted any of it was his.

Kneeling before Farkas, I reached out to him. Whatever else was going through his head, he would have sensed my approach. He startled when I made contact, but didn't raise his head or bark at me to leave. I persisted, sweeping his hair gently aside and tucking it behind his ears.

"Hey," I whispered. It came out as a rasp. "Vilkas is home."

Farkas grunted, lifting his head far enough to glance at me from under his dark brows. He regarded me from swollen eyes and his war-paint had been washed away entirely, but I saw no tears in his silvery depths now. I lowered my hands to his legs, not wanting to break contact now that I had gotten a response from him.

"Where?" he grumbled softly.

"He's with Kodlak. He wants you and Aela to go to him."

Guilt shot through Farkas' eyes, and he leaned back slowly, nodding as his mouth formed a flat line. His focus drifted to the centre of the mead hall, where Kodlak had been laid out; where his brother now knelt. His larynx bobbed as he swallowed.

"Do you know where Aela is?" I asked him quietly. I didn't want to face her, but I would do as I had been asked.

Again, Farkas nodded, but his eyes were still on Vilkas. "Don't you go near her. I'll bring her. Go back to my brother," he murmured.

I felt too foggy to refuse him. I rose and sauntered back to Kodlak, kneeling on the other side, across from Vilkas.

"They're on their way," I told him softly.

He didn't answer; maybe he nodded, but I didn't see any acknowledgement. He spoke, but only to Kodlak, in a quiet voice with the old warrior's hand clasped in his.

"It is not too late for us yet, master," he was saying, his voice shaking with a passion of hope. "I have the heads of the Glenmoril witches. All we need is Wuuthrad restored. I won't give up now."

With a pang I realised that, had the Silver Hand not attacked, the Circle would have been closer than ever to realising their cure. We could have been celebrating Vilkas' return at this moment.

Lifting my hand to Kodlak's brow, I smoothed the fine, silvery hair at his temples back and listened to the rumble of Vilkas' voice. _Could_ Kodlak still be saved? It seemed as though Vilkas thought so.

"And I swear to you that I will reclaim it, for your soul, and ours," Vilkas went on in a choked murmur. "You _will_ be free. We _will_ meet again, in Sovngarde, as it should be."

Only silence met Vilkas' promise, for I didn't dare ask how Kodlak might still be saved. We stayed by him in silence until the tread of boots approaching drew us each from our quiet vigils.

Aela and Farkas drew to a halt. They were at Kodlak's feet, standing as though they were on trial. In the corner of my eye I saw Vilkas let go of Kodlak's hand, and rise slowly to meet them.

I prayed to the Divines that he would embrace them; that what remained of the Circle would not allow what had passed to divide them again.

But of course, it was not to be. Their inner wolves, when challenged, would allow them neither rest nor comfort.

"Tell me how this happened," Vilkas commanded in a growl, his fists clenching.

Farkas looked so ashamed that it physically pained me to look at him. Aela, ever defiant, raised her chin. Her green eyes flashed yellow and I was surprised that she didn't bare her teeth at Vilkas when she spat her answer at him; "I will not regret what I have done."

"Explain," Vilkas demanded swiftly.

She told him everything with dissent thick in her manner and choice of words. She told him, unashamedly, of how she and Farkas had hunted, every night he had been away, bent on eradicating the Silver Hand plague responsible for torturing and murdering Skjor; who would have killed her as well, had Farkas not found her in time. I had known that she had never agreed with Kodlak and the brothers choice to pursue a cure, and it was evident as ever in the way she allowed her beast-blood to form her responses to Vilkas. Where they abhorred, she thrived.

"If I must regret, it is only that we weren't thorough enough," Aela grit her teeth in conclusion.

Vilkas was quiet and still with his focus fixed on Aela. I was glad that I couldn't see his eyes, for I knew they would be full of blazing fury that might burn anyone who got in his way.

After a significant silence, Vilkas turned his head slightly to regard his brother.

"Do you have anything to add?" he asked in the same, low voice he had commanded Aela in.

Farkas seemed to feel the brunt of Vilkas' glares, whereas Aela hadn't budged under them. He lowered his eyes and shook his head.

Without a word of reproof or otherwise, Vilkas turned and strode toward the living quarters.

"Vilkas?" Farkas called out, looking up hastily.

"Let him go," Aela muttered spitefully.

Propelled by a sudden, desperate force within me – to stop him, and whatever he was going to do – I scrambled to my feet and dashed after Vilkas.

"Celeste?" Farkas' call was even more confused this time.

I didn't acknowledge. My feet clattered down the stairs; I flung open the doors to the living area, and saw Vilkas turning the corner into the hall that led to his private quarters.

"Wait!" I called out, breathless.

I burst into the hallway. He had stopped in his tracks, his back to me and his frame trembling with pent-up emotion, tall and taut, and ready to snap.

I skidded to a halt, alone with Vilkas' suppressed fury, his suppressed _beast_.

He just stood there, shuddering, waiting for me to speak, his head half-turned as though he had meant to acknowledge me over his shoulder, but had decided against it partway through the action.

"Just – wait," I breathed deeply, not realising that I had been holding it. "You said you didn't want my stories, but you must let me tell you this. Before I killed Kodlak's murderer, I made him tell me where they were going with Wuuthrad."

"You _what_?" he growled.

Vilkas turned around; his eyes narrow and glinting at me, reflecting the light of the hall lanterns.

I stood taller; conversely, his reaction had dispelled my anxiety. He would not attack me. I had faced his wolf in the underforge. He had _saved_ me then. He could control it. And now, he was speaking and listening to me.

"Driftshade," I told him with more confidence. "Before I...ended him, he told me they were in Driftshade."

Vilkas stormed forward. I thought he was going to grab my shoulders and braced myself for his rough hold, but instead, he wrapped his arms around me fiercely, clasping a hand to the back of my head.

He tugged me urgently, protectively, to land against his chest. "Why?" he asked me in a desperate hiss.

I froze, my arms bundled up in front of me; startled by his embrace considering the number of times I had stopped myself from doing the same because I had assumed Vilkas didn't _do_ hugs.

"Why were you fighting them at all?" he elaborated, imploring; trembling. "You could have _died_ ," he pulled back. His large hands settled on my arms as he ducked down and fixed me with distressed, silvery orbs. "Then where would Skyrim be?"

The shock was catching up to him; that was abundantly clear. But he was so full of sorrow that I felt my eyes fill with tears as I watched the strength before me slowly crumble.

"Shield-brother, _listen_ to what I'm saying," I whispered, determined to pull him through this. There was no point in answering why I had been fighting - I was a Companion. He had not seen how far I had come over the two weeks he had been gone, so I would have to excuse his doubts of my abilities until I could show him otherwise. "They're taking Wuuthrad to a place called Driftshade. I heard what you said upstairs, to Kodlak," I brought my hands up, resting them in the crook of his elbows in an attempt to soothe the torment. "If it truly is not too late...until we act, his soul is bound to Hircine."

It might have been cruel to remind him, but it had the desired effect. The change to his countenance was difficult to perceive; a gradual shift from distress to resolve. But the change did happen, and soon he stood tall, taking a step back as his eyes cleared of sorrow.

"Driftshade," he echoed in a quiet voice. "I do not know of it. But, I have a map, in my room, that might."

He turned and I followed unhesitatingly into his sanctuary. It was a relatively small room, of similar size to my bedroom in Breezehome. There were chairs beside a desk with a few sheets of paper, a few letters, some quills and ink and a neat pile of books on it; a short bookshelf beside it, piled with more in orderly columns of tomes and stacked in a way that made best use of the space. Across the room was a privacy screen, to separate his work space from a sleeping area; through the gaps in the screen I could see a bed, made up for sleep, but never truly slept in, and with a disused quality about it given he'd been away for two weeks. On his dresser was a bowl of odd, segmented, glowing eggs of some kind – spoils of some quest or other – and a couple of bags of gold. It did not seem to be just a room to work in, but a place that Vilkas had impressed an orderly, stoic, efficient human part of himself on.

Vilkas grabbed a large, rolled parchment from the top of the bookshelf and turned to his desk, uncoiling it and placing a book on each side to keep it from curling back on itself.

I stood perpendicular to him, my hands on the table, and we searched in silence. I prayed to the Divines that this Driftshade, be it a camp or a ruin, _would_ actually be marked.

"There," Vilkas reached out, pressing his finger to a point south east of Dawnstar. "Driftshade Refuge. An old fort."

I confirmed for myself, nodding. I felt a little faint at the prospect of journeying so far north. "All right. Let's go."

"You're not coming with me," Vilkas stood up, busy replacing his books and re-rolling the map.

"I _am_ going with you," I corrected him quietly, willing him to look at me, but he didn't; turning and replacing his map on the bookshelf idly. "For Kodlak, I am going with you," I insisted in a louder voice.

Vilkas remained facing his bookshelf, but sighed to the ceiling; his shoulders falling as he did so. "You have no armour. You will need to sleep, whereas I will not. Your housecarl will insist on coming with us, and the Jarl will not approve of his Thane leaving Whiterun without a word. Furthermore," he turned finally, fixing me with a pleading expression. "You are _Farkas_ ' only hope, should I fail, and," he sighed to the floor, then added in earnest as he glanced up; " _I_...cannot bear the thought of you being put in harm's way again."

"There is no time to argue," I stood taller, dismissing the personal, somewhat selfish nature of his admissions. "I am your shield-sister. I saw Kodlak and Ria run through by the Silver Hand, and I am going to Driftshade Refuge.

"Furthermore," I whispered pointedly. " _You_ need me to keep your wolf at bay. I will not abandon you to suffer your demon on your own."

He fixed me with a searching glare, which I bore the whole of, stilled and determined. This was what it was to call oneself a Companion; to ensure your shield-siblings didn't have to carry out their quests alone. Farkas had helped Aela avenge Skjor; now I would help Vilkas avenge Kodlak and Ria.

Suddenly, Vilkas strode past me.

"You're right," he replied gruffly, retrieving a great sword from a shadowed weapon rack I'd not perceived earlier; unsheathing the sword at his hip and replacing it with this new, I assumed sharper one. "There _is_ no time to argue. If you can keep up with me, I cannot stop you from doing what you believe to be right. As for what we must do," he glanced darkly at me over his shoulder. "We are without a master to keep check of our consciences any longer."

His last did not feel like his words; they were too futile and desolate, as though said only to remind me of what he was capable of becoming if left unchecked.

If anything, he only made me more determined. He _would_ need me to keep him from transforming.

But challenging the wolf would not do. I lowered my head to him in respect. "If you would lead; I will follow you," I told him truthfully.

Silence met my pronouncement and the solemn weight behind it. I yearned for him to understand that he was not alone, and wanted to remind him of _his_ duty to stay alive; not only as a shield-sibling and as my teacher, but as Kodlak's second. Vilkas had been managing the day to day business of the Companions for some time now, if the accounts book was anything to go by, and it would be expected, when the dust settled, that he become Harbinger. He would lead the Companions, so long as he lived, and we _would_ follow him when he ascended.

A short sword entered my vision. I glanced up to Vilkas with wide eyes, to face a grim expression and discomforted gaze. He was holding the sword out to me.

"If you take this," he told me with heavy certainty, "then you _must_ follow me. If I tell you to hide, or to run, or to leave me, you do not argue, but act. Do you swear it?"

I nodded, accepting the handle and gripping it, searching about myself for somewhere to sheath it. "I swear it."

Vilkas stepped closer and sighed, taking the sword again and hooking it through a loop in my belt. "Until you have your armour, you wear it here," he murmured.

"Thank you," I replied, flushing. Could I stop by Breezehome to retrieve my Legion armour without troubling Lydia? Doubtful. She would not like this. I was covered in Silver Hand blood. But, as well as retrieving the only armour I owned, I could not leave without telling her where I was going, and why she couldn't come with me.

Vilkas strode toward the hallway. "Pack provisions for a five day journey. Bring what potions you can source. I will..." he hesitated. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling again. "Our shield-siblings will need some...instructions," he chose a word, grimacing distastefully at it. "Meet me at the stables in half an hour."

I hastened after him. "I'll be there."

–

Before returning to Breezehome, I changed out of my blood-soaked clothing and into some common garb I found in one of the dormitory dressers, and retrieved my discarded bow and quiver from the mead hall. There was no time for a bath, but under the cover of night and at the speed I maintained, I doubted any would notice the dried blood on my hands and face.

Lydia noticed everything, however, and the moment I stepped through the door she was before me, hugging me tightly.

"Where _were_ you?" she whispered fiercely, holding me close and exhaling a low breath over the top of my head. "They are saying that Jorrvaskr was _attacked_?"

I nodded, gently extricating myself from her. "Sorry. There's no time to tell you everything, I leave in under half an hour. Will you help me get ready?" I asked swiftly, moving toward the stairs.

"You're hurt," Lucia said in a small, shaky voice, looking up with wide, fearful eyes from her seat at the kitchen table. From the state of the table, they had been taking dinner when I had barged in.

I shook my head as I walked past her. "I'm unharmed."

"Then you're sad," she insisted swiftly, but still remained where she was, rooted to her chair.

I answered from the bottom of the stairs. "Some of the Companions were killed," I told her in a quiet voice, meeting Lydia's confused green eyes as I said it. "Vilkas and I are going after those who did it."

I bounded up the stairs, with Lydia at my heels. I expected a fight, but my housecarl surprised me.

"How can I help?" she asked flatly.

 _Thank the Gods for Lydia_. "I need armour, food, drink, potions..." I trailed off, locating my pack in the chest at the end of my bed and flinging it onto the covers.

"Your armour is in the bottom drawer," she told me, ducking down to tug it open. "But, it's a little conspicuous."

"It will do," I knelt down and tugged the Legion cuirass out. "I have no other."

Lydia cursed. "The Jarl's armour orders don't usually take this long to fulfil. It must be on account of the war."

I agreed, standing, and stripped down to my smalls. I scrubbed my face and arms briefly from the bowl of water on the dresser; grimacing as my face cloth came away rusty with dried blood.

Lydia said nothing, though her eyes lingered on the murky water.

"Can you find something I can wear under my armour?" I asked to distract her as I washed myself again. "It's going to be cold."

She shook herself and retrieved a padded under tunic and thick leggings from the top drawer, passing both to me.

"Where exactly are you going?" she asked carefully; a mild quiver the only hint of her concern.

I chucked the under tunic over my head. "A fort called Driftshade. It's near Dawnstar," I stretched into the leggings, then brought the Legion kilt up over my hips and secured the belt around my waist.

"Dawnstar?" she sounded aghast. "So far?" she lifted the Imperial cuirass up.

"Yes," I tugged it down, my hands immediately falling to tighten the side straps. My fingers worked quickly, and I recalled how Hadvar had tightened these same straps for me when I had first put this armour on. My Hadvar, who had been assigned to a garrison in the Pale, in the direction I was soon to be headed.

 _You have no cause to go to him,_ I told myself sternly, and sat on the bed, slipping into my boots. No; whether Hadvar was a mile, or half a Hold away from me, neither of us were at liberty to go the other. He had his tasks, and I, mine. The Silver Hand would pay for what they had done, and Wuuthrad would be retrieved, so that Kodlak's soul might find its peace in Sovngarde. Nothing else mattered.

Lydia spoke of food and left me to finish preparing. It didn't take me long. I unbraided and re-braided my hair more securely, twisting the plait around itself and pinning it at the back of my neck in a bun, out of my way. I sheathed the sword Vilkas had given me; put on my coat and scarf, then strapped my quiver around my shoulders, lamenting for a brief moment that there were so few arrows in it. As with my armour, it would have to do. I would retrieve more on the road.

With bow in one hand, and empty pack in the other, I rushed downstairs to find Lydia and Lucia assembling potions and food. Hastily, I stuffed what they had collected into my pack as I thanked them.

Then I threw my pack over my shoulder, my hand tightening around the strap as I stood tall and stared at them. Both Lucia and Lydia looked worried, but said nothing to hinder me.

"Well. Good bye," I swallowed thickly, blinking back tears that had unexpectedly risen at their show of mute fidelity.

Lydia frowned and encased me in a hug, and Lucia joined in a second later, wrapping her small arms around my waist tightly.

"Good luck," Lydia murmured.

"May the Divines keep you safe," Lucia spoke into my armour, where her face was pressed.

"And you," I whispered, pulling back from both and shaking away my tears as I turned to Lydia. "Would you explain to the Jarl-?"

"I will take care of it," she assured calmly, resting her hand on my arm. "You worry about nothing but keeping yourself and your shield-brother, alive."

Feeling wan, I nodded. Then I turned, unwilling to make this a long good bye, and left Breezehome.

" _I don't like good byes."_

The memory of Hadvar's admission pressed upon me as I stepped out into the cold night and turned left, making for the main gates that would lead to the stable.

"Better than not saying good bye at all," I reminded myself in a whisper as my teeth chattered; not from the cold, but from shock. All the good byes I had been denied were looming like shadows behind me, and I quickened my pace, determined to outrun them for just a little longer.


	29. Presumption and Certainty

_Chapter 29: Presumption and Certainty_

In the weeks since Vilkas had left, I had forgotten how unlike the two brothers were, particularly when it came to conversation.

Farkas talked little, and when he did, it was to issue instructions, or to say something that might make you laugh. He talked when required and didn't seem to need to fill the spaces between with noise. What he had been about to tell me before the Silver Hand had descended had been the closest we had ever come to having a true conversation. His accent, which should have been as strong as his brother's, had been sloughed away over time through a propensity to listen, rather than speak, so that when he did recount words he had heard around Whiterun, he had naturally adopted the more midland way of speaking.

To the unknowing and unobservant, Vilkas spoke even less, and it was widely believed that he chose not to engage out of the possession of a disagreeable disposition, backed by the glares that he offered in place of verbal replies. But Vilkas could talk, and talk well, as I had discovered during the late night exchanges we had shared with Kodlak. His reticence wasn't borne of attitude, but of a fierce reluctance to trust others. Vilkas could speak with the fluency and poeticism of a bard, when he desired it, and it was clear he had built his vocabulary from a vast array of reading materials, not from idle chatter at inns.

As we left Whiterun, both strung out and running from our grief into the arms of revenge, he talked to me as though the past two hours had not occurred. It did not take me long to fall into the charade with him, for I had trained to adopt whatever the moment required. I strived to keep the consuming blackness at bay for as long as possible, so that we might do what we had committed to doing.

While Vilkas clearly talked to distract us, I felt it was also for appearances sake, for the citizens and guards of Whiterun that we passed by. Perhaps he simply did not want anybody to realise that he was setting out with the barely-trained Dragonborn in tow on a quest for vengeance. Whatever his reasons, I gratefully shrugged off my shroud of gloom and turned my attention to formulating responses.

"And the inn there is a piece of work. Falkreath is a miserable place to stop at the best of times, and I had the misfortune of spending many nights there," he conversed lightly. "Have you seen it?"

I nodded, and hastily added, "Yes. Once, by mistake actually."

"How does anyone end up in _Falkreath_ by mistake?" he laughed hollowly.

I flashed him an unimpressed look. "I was in transit. I caught the coach there and found no adjoining one to take me any further, owing to the war," I sighed impatiently. I wanted to speak to him of our task ahead, not of my past. "Who would have believed that all roads lead to Falkreath?" I mused quietly.

Vilkas barked another laugh, but it was humourless. He went on to talk of the woman who managed the inn.

"Valga? I remember her," I gave him a crooked smile. It was unlike Vilkas to speak of women at all; everything was usually all...business, and training.

"Aye, Valga. Beautiful, resourceful, independent woman, but _proud_ to a fault. And then there's that stringy, doe-eyed girl she keeps about the place, for Shor-knows what reason, for she never served me a single mead in all the time I was there," he grimaced.

"I remember her, too," I tried to laugh, though there was no heart in it. I couldn't remember the name of the woman he spoke of, though it hardly mattered. "She seemed to think it a game to tease the men of Falkreath," I shrugged.

Vilkas huffed and shrugged as well. "I must not have been her type."

I couldn't help but arch my eyebrow at him. Had he _wanted_ her attentions? "She probably saw little reason to, for you'd be gone before she reaped the rewards."

He snorted. "I must give her some credit for determining I was a waste of her time. She was too sneering to be pleasant company."

I could think of nothing to reply with that wouldn't lead us into discussing Vilkas' taste in women – not exactly a topic I wished to pursue, for it might expose my own lack of experience. I turned my eyes to the horizon and buried my flush, extending my stride so we might travel a little faster. The docile horse I was leading obediently clopped along behind me.

After a short pause, Vilkas led his horse off to the side of the road and to a halt with a quiet, "Whoa, there."

I followed suit, drawing my bay up next to his piebald.

"Time to mount up and get this done," his tone adopted a hard darkness that sent my heart racing at once.

"Calm down," he urged through his teeth, shooting me a narrowed look as he swung up onto his mount. "What are you going to be like in battle, if your heart goes all aflutter at the thought of mounting a horse?" he righted himself.

I scowled and settled myself in the saddle before I answered him. "I'm sorry if you find what I cannot help distracting. But, it was not the horse that startled me," I admitted. There was no point in trying to hide what I felt, so why hide the truth? "Your voice changed, just now," I gave him a purposeful, sideways glance. "It went from warm and friendly, to ice cold, and I didn't expect it."

"That's what...?" he faltered. He said nothing for a time, and we busied ourselves adjusting weapons and armour to sit comfortably.

Eventually, he replied; quiet and more hesitant. "You are afraid of me?"

"No. Well," I corrected. "It was instinctive. _I'm_ not afraid of you."

"Instinctive," he echoed in a speculative mutter, turning his horse onto the road.

I rolled my eyes and pressed my heels into the flank of my bay. We would have to warm the horses up before we could canter north, so we could speak for a while yet, if he wished.

"You're right to fear me," he grumbled decisively as I drew up beside him. "I'm a beast, barely in control of the monster within," he hissed in frustration.

" _Enough_ , shield-brother," I reprimanded gently. "You are too smart to take what I said out of context, and I will not insult you by repeating myself. Please. I told you because I trust you, and want to tell you the truth. Am I wrong to do so?" I asked kindly.

He was silent for a moment, then murmured sadly, "No. I am pleased that you have the courage to speak truths to me. Many do not."

I narrowed my eyes at his defeated tone, wishing he would look at me, but his eyes were squared on the path ahead.

The pause in conversation lengthened, and the topic closed wordlessly, leaving me feeling uncomfortable at our lack of resolution.

I fidgeted in my saddle, trying to chuck the feeling off and stretching my back as I got used to the sway of riding a horse again. I hadn't ridden for some time, and the bay Vilkas had purchased was so large that my thighs already felt strained. They would ache horribly by the time we stopped. _If_ we stopped. Surely, we would stop to rest the horses before we reached the den of the Silver Hand.

I shook myself and resolved to focus on riding and our duties. If Vilkas had taken umbrage to my admission, that was his business, and if he wished to discuss it further, he was more than capable of bringing it up.

"Do we have a plan?" I broke the silence.

Vilkas tilted his head, his brows furrowed and his voice flat. "Go in. Purge the place. Retrieve Wuuthrad. Return to Whiterun."

"Is that all?" I huffed ironically. If not for the accent, I could have imagined I was speaking to Farkas for the sudden want of words.

"You have a better idea?" he turned his eyes back to the road.

The path before us was suitably dark, given the ominous purpose pushing us on. The skies were gloomy, covered in low clouds. There was no breeze to ruffle the fluffy tundra clumped by the side of the road. The stillness, and the lack of moon and stars to guide us heightened the surreal nature of the situation. I stared at the mountains far ahead, realising that soon we would be traversing them, and beyond. _Prepare for five days_ , Vilkas had said. Would we be riding north for two? I had travelled so infrequently from the comfort of Solitude that I barely understood how long anything took in Skyrim.

 _Then learn what you can, now,_ I mused.

"We should move, while we have cover," Vilkas cleared his throat. "Mind that you keep up," he said in a clipped tone, flashing me a sideways glance.

With that, he kicked his heels into his piebald's flank, and his horse launched into a run.

I watched him go, wondering at the edge to his commands. Had I truly injured him? Surely not; not for being honest.

I shook myself out of my stupor. Vilkas had every right to be distressed. He'd just come home from a lonesome two-week journey, crucial to their cure, to find a shield-sister and his Harbinger dead. Had it not been for the distractions around us, and constant internal reminders to shove the grief off, I would be the same, and I didn't have an inner wolf to deal with. Had I not insisted on coming with him so I could help control the beast within? Had I not sworn to follow his lead? I needed to get over myself, and be there for him now.

I encouraged my horse to meet his pace and we rode away the night. Occasionally the clouds parted to let a soft glow from one or both of the moons through the seams, revealing patches of black velvet sky and twinkling, silvery stars before the high winds swept them from view again.

We met no one and nothing on the plains roads. Perhaps we were travelling too fast to notice anything else, until we neared the mountain pass. As we began ascending, there was a distant echo of a beastly screech; a sound that made both of us take pause.

Vilkas pulled his reigns back and held his hand out for me to stop, turning his head in the direction of the sound as his piebald skittered on the gravel in its haste to obey. I brought my horse up next to his as my stomach flipped, looking out in the same direction.

I knew that sound.

"Steady," he leaned down, patting the horse's neck comfortingly, then rose. "It's a long way off," he murmured.

I agreed, searching the vast plains. Where was the dragon hiding? No words of translation had bounced around my skull when it had screamed, so I had to assume that the dragon was either too far away, or that it had not actually spoken any words at all.

"Are you tired?" Vilkas asked dryly.

I shook my head. The screech of the dragon, however distant, had shot me full of adrenaline. "Are you?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Vilkas 'hmphed' knowingly. "The horses will need to be watered soon. There's an inn, the Nightgate, a little way ahead. You can rest for an hour or two there."

"I would rather keep riding," I replied steadily, clenching my jaw stubbornly. "As you have made abundantly clear; I need to keep up."

Vilkas cast me dubious look. "I will not ride off and leave you while you sleep," he assured, clicking his horse back into a walk. We were nearing a section of mountain pass which would make cantering too dangerous.

I frowned, urging my horse after his. "The thought didn't cross my mind," I agreed loftily.

He didn't reply.

The furthermost clouds on the eastern horizon shifted from dark grey to a bruised-looking pink as we continued to climb, and we pushed on to the inn in silence.

Once we had reached the cottage-sized inn, rather than going in to rest I handed my horse to the inn's stable hand, then walked out to look over Lake Yorgrim.

I sat, leant against one of the pylons of a jetty that had been extended over the banks of the lake closest to the Nightgate. I looked out over the watery expanse and snowy vista, holding my arms around myself in a futile attempt to keep from shivering in the morning chill. Riding; the horse and exertion had warmed me, even during our slower ascent from the plains. But there was too much snow to keep the cold at bay now. Snow had settled everywhere; the only break from the whiteness underfoot the occasional slushy, dark brown pathway.

I sighed, shuddering, creating little puffs of white before my eyes with each breath. My teeth chattered and thighs burned in protest and I rubbed them, urging the muscles to unlock. We still had a way to go, and I didn't want to waste potions on matters of endurance.

Vilkas arrived and sat next to me. In the corner of my gaze, he dangled his legs over the side and leaned back on his hands comfortably, seemingly impervious to the cold.

I turned to him in inquiry. He had been short and aloof since my admission of instinctive fear, so it surprised me that he had sought out my company. When we had arrived, he had remained talking amicably with the stable hand as I had wandered off.

The Nord's eyes were fixed on the snowy expanse before us, but of course, he noticed my regard and began talking.

"Strange stories are making their way around Skyrim," he sighed to the winds. "The stable hand mustn't have realised who you are," he added in a mutter.

"Good," I huffed, unimpressed. _That's_ what they'd been talking about. Vilkas had been away when the news had reached Whiterun, but given Ria and Kodlak's deaths, it didn't feel right to be agonising over rumours. My gaze followed the lines of the pine trees on the opposite bank, layered with thick white like icing on a cake.

I felt his eyes settle on me finally. "You won't ask of what's being said?"

Half shrugging, I remained fixed on the trees. "Is it the one about joining the Stormcloaks, or the one about my part in the retrieval of the Jagged Crown?"

"Ah," Vilkas realised, turning away. "You already know."

My vision blurred against my will, and I no longer saw the trees. My thoughts fled to the injustice of the Stormcloaks using me in this way. The talk did not burn as it once had, though I still felt ill at the prospect of what harm it would cause others. "Yes. I was warned of the rumours by my–"

I cut myself off, suddenly uncertain of what to call Hadvar. Friend? Yes, but, no – what else? Was there a name for what we were to one another?

Vilkas filled the space with a sigh. "Much passed while I was away, it seems."

I nodded, but I was focused on the quandary before me, thrown by what was so dear to me being at the same time, quite uncertain. Given that everything else in life was so erratic, I strove to resolve this, at least, for myself.

"I have a friend, in the Legion," I settled, though it still wasn't enough. "He wrote me of the first rumour, before it reached Whiterun. The Jarl and I were able to minimise the impact of it at home. We were unable to do anything further afield," I murmured regretfully, then turned to Vilkas. His gaze was guarded. "Do you think I should confront the stable hand, and set him right?"

Vilkas' brows furrowed. "What purpose would it serve? People will believe what they want to believe. He's just a lad, talking nonsense he's picked up second-hand from other travellers."

"I don't know," I admitted with a small shrug. "Even stable hands deserve to know the truth. If I tell him it, perhaps the next people who come to the Nightgate won't spread the Stormcloak's lies further?"

Vilkas sighed, the white puff created clouding his features. He spoke once it had dissipated. "If we tell him that you are the Dragonborn, and word spreads of our destination, it will make us a target for every zealous Stormcloak in the Hold who wishes to use your name for their purposes."

"And we have more important matters to attend to," I finished his sentence for him.

"Correct."

Vilkas and I fell into silence. My skin burned from the biting chill to the air, and I found it difficult to relax as thoughts and memories of the past two weeks replayed and conflicted against one another in my head. The previous night's events hit me like a wall, and I steadied my hands on my knees, exhaling slowly to regain some measure of composure.

"The inn had a room spare for ten gold," Vilkas spoke as I exercised my breathing techniques. He leaned back on his hands again. "I took the liberty of acquiring it, so you might as well make use of it."

I shook my head resolutely. "I do not wish to sleep," I murmured.

"You'll be no good to me spent before we reach Driftshade," he grumbled persistently.

Again, I shook my head, rubbing my aching thighs idly. "I close my eyes and I see Kodlak and Ria, being run through, again and again," I explained quietly.

Vilkas didn't reply.

I shuddered, wishing he would speak again to divert the encroaching darkness. I lowered my eyes to the water, watching as it rippled gently a few feet below us. How was Lake Yorgrim still flowing and alive? Perhaps the river prevented the water from settling long enough for it to ice over.

"There will be no rest for me, until Kodlak's spirit is free," I added finally, leaning toward him and resting my head on his shoulder.

I sighed when I felt Vilkas tense as my cheek settled against his arm. I hadn't even thought about the gesture, so hadn't hesitated until after the fact. There was something familiar and comforting about Vilkas. It was the same with Kodlak; as though these two men _were_ my family, as precious to me as Lydia and Lucia –

 _Was_ , I reminded myself coldly. _Kodlak is gone._

Clenching my eyes closed in an effort to push back another surge of tears, I spoke swiftly in a shaky gasp. "Shield-brother, tell me more of Falkreath, while we wait for the horses to be ready," I feigned a yawn to cover my distress. Could Vilkas sense how close I was to weeping? "Your talk of Valga and the stringy one was a good...distraction."

The shoulder muscles under my head relaxed. "I am no bard," he replied with a trace of genuine amusement. "But," he shifted slightly, to loop his arm around my shoulder comfortingly, "will you sing? I haven't heard your voice for some weeks. It never fails to relax me," he added honestly. "Perhaps a song will provide the distraction you desire, too."

I sighed, huddling closer against him, grateful for the warmth he exuded and freely shared. No wonder he was so unaffected by the chill of the day. "All right. What would you hear?"

"Anything," he replied quickly.

I nodded, yawning properly this time, then crooned the first song that popped into my head:

" _Have you seen my sword sword? My new diamond sword sword?  
I am now the lord lord, Of my diamond sword sword._"

Vilkas huffed, creating a large white cloud before us, and I felt him shake in repressed amusement. "Not the most evocative of melodies or complex of lyrics, I'll admit, but you sing it well."

I took pause to ask him wearily; "Do you want a song to clutch at your heartstrings and pull, encouraging your sorrow to claw its way to the surface? Because, I could not _bare_ it, Vilkas."

He didn't respond, but his arm tightened around me. He rested his cheek on the top of my head, then exhaled heavily.

We remained there in silent comfort, and during it, this time I thought of nothing. My mind blanketed the anguish and my vision cleared. I gazed out across the lake, and quietly resumed singing my silly song.

A bird called from one of the nearby trees; another, further off, replied to it at once. The wind brushed across the tops of the trees, making the lightest dusting of snow scatter. Somewhere behind us, near the inn, the stable hand whistled a tune that I didn't recognise; perhaps it wasn't really even a song, but something idle he had made up.

An out-of-place crunch of gravel beyond the lake caught my attention, and I stopped singing. Squinting, I tried to identify the movement through the trees. It sounded like footfalls.

Seconds later, I caught a flash of leather, and then through a larger gap in the trees I saw a tall, thin Imperial Legion messenger. Her gait spoke of a weariness; doubtless she was making her way to the inn.

Guilt washed through me, warming me uncomfortably. The Legion. The _war_. Hadvar was out there, probably trudging through the snow himself, and I was sitting here by the lake in the arms of another man.

Anyone, even Vilkas himself might misconstrue our positions. I sighed shakily at the dilemma, flushing as I berated myself and eased away from him. Vilkas sat back wordlessly as I leaned on the pylon once more, and grabbed at it to drag myself to my feet.

Vilkas was _not_ my brother, regardless of the nature of this bond I felt. I could not be so familiar with him, particularly when the two of us were out in the empty wilds seeking distraction from our internal torment. He had openly told me that he cared for my well-being, and while I believed that it was a protection he would offer freely to any of his colleagues, I had to stop taking my friends for granted.

I would not let Vilkas become my new Ataf. I would _not_ use Vilkas for his camaraderie and warmth, if there was a possibility of using him ill in the process. Torn between a desire to remain, and fearing what I could encourage if I did, I turned away to leave.

"I think I will take that room for a bit, after all," I covered wearily, unwilling to meet his eyes. My heart thudded, thick with newfound discomfort, loud and clear for him to interpret as he would.

"Good," Vilkas murmured. "You should never begrudge the ability to sleep."

His tone seemed wholly unaffected, and I shook my head at myself as I departed. I _was_ worrying over nothing.

Trudging through the snow and retreating to the inn, I determined that I would tell Vilkas more explicitly of Hadvar, somehow, on the next leg of our journey. If I had unwittingly encouraged Vilkas to care for me beyond the capacity of shield-sibling, telling him of Hadvar would resolve the matter.

 _And what will I tell Vilkas of him,_ I asked as I entered the small, simple bedroom and collapsed on the bed, fully-clothed; coat, scarf and all. _We have not promised anything beyond writing to one another._

I glared at the wall. Hadvar was more than a...a _pen-pal_. He had saved me, protected me, sheltered me, and trusted me. And I trusted him. He had, somehow, become the man I weighed all others against; the man who stole his way into my thoughts; the man whose smile comforted me. The man whose kiss blazed through me at the merest recollection of our parting moments.

We were not married, or betrothed, or even lovers. Were we? Certainly not in the traditional sense. So, _what_ were we?

 _Is it really so difficult to admit,_ I asked myself plainly? _I love him._

The clarity of this large, encompassing thought swept over my doubts and encircled them, centring on this simple truth. _There is no better way to describe who he is. He is the man I love._

My chest glowed with relief. It did not matter, what the world would make of our relationship or how it would try to label us, but only what _we_ felt. I bundled one of the woollen blankets around me and closed my eyes.

My cheeks warmed as I acknowledged my feelings. It was a welcome distraction from the outrage I felt at the Stormcloak rumours, and the agony of Ria and Kodlak's deaths. Consumed by a love that I was _fairly_ certain was returned, my thoughts of Hadvar lulled me to sleep.

–

Vilkas woke me. My head thumped in time with his words, so that I didn't hear what he said. The sun streamed through the window, bright but without warmth behind it. I sat up, confused, blinking blearily at the glare.

"I'm sorry," I heard him saying as he walked toward the tap room, but he hesitated before he reached the closed door. "There's some food, if you want it, but then we keep going. I want to reach Driftshade under cover of darkness and we have a way to travel yet."

My head swam as I turned to him and nodded weakly, then regretted the action, cradling my head in my hands. "Where are the potions?" I groaned through a haze of stars.

Again, I didn't hear his reply – or perhaps there wasn't one – but when my vision cleared, Vilkas was by my side, sitting on the edge of the bed with his palm outstretched. A small red bottle lay within it.

"Thank you," I murmured, clasping it and fumbling with the cork hastily. I drank the contents of the thick liquid, grimacing and fighting my gag reflex as I swallowed. It was worth the moment of disgust, for the _thump-thump_ in my head abated immediately.

"Are you all right now?" Vilkas asked quietly, ducking down to my level.

I looked up to him from under my lashes. My cheeks pinked as I searched his face, trying to convince myself that there was nothing but the concern of a shield-sibling there. _Don't look at me like that, please._

"Yes," I made to rise. Vilkas stood first to give me room. "You said there was food?" I tried to smooth down my coat and scarf, regretting now that I had slept in them, for they were rumpled.

Vilkas' response was subtly wary. "Aye. Then we ride," he reminded me.

"Good," I resolved swiftly as I made for the central room of the inn. "The sooner we get this over with, the better."

"Agreed," he rumbled.

The common room was like any other provincial inn I had been in, with a large central hearth and rows of tables and bench seats by the walls. It was empty but for the publican behind the bar, and the lone, female Legion scout that I had seen earlier. She was sitting by the wall and reading from a slim book with a concerned look on her face with a plate of untouched food before her.

I watched her, wondering if she was on her way to or from Hadvar's camp in the Pale. It was possible, given where we currently were.

"Is there time for me to write a letter?" I asked Vilkas, making a swift decision.

Vilkas crossed his brows at me. "Can't it wait?"

"I can't miss this chance," I shook my head; my eyes back on the Legion scout. She was so absorbed in whatever she was reading that she hadn't noticed us. "I have an opportunity to get a note to him. I must take it," I resolved, marching toward the woman.

"Who?" Vilkas' call followed me across the room.

I didn't reply, telling myself that I was too far away to do so. Guilt washed over me; I wasn't handling this well _at all_. If there was anything to my suspicions that he cared for me, I had not asked for his regard.

 _You are panicking over nothing,_ a snide, mocking voice rose within me. _You are arrogant to believe it possible that every man you spend time with will fall in love with you. All you are doing is destroying the trust you have built._

I was standing beside the Legion scout, which brought an abrupt end to my internal chastisement.

"Hello," I greeted cheerily, holding out my hand toward her.

The woman glanced up but her eyes were distant; it took her a few seconds to focus on me. Then her eyes widened, and she looked me up and down swiftly. "You-?" she glanced around the pub warily.

I lowered my hand, for I had held it out for too long, offering her a smile instead. "My name is Celeste."

Unable to find her answers in the common room, the woman settled her wide, hazel eyes back on me. "Yes, I know who you are," she murmured, closing the book and placing it gently on the table before her. "You're the Dragonborn," she added, meeting my gaze carefully.

I bowed my head. "That's right. And you are?"

"Forgive my impertinence, Lady Dragonborn, but what are _you_ doing in the Nightgate inn?" she asked in a hush.

"Ah," I realised with a pang. "You have heard about how I have joined the Stormcloaks, haven't you? Well," I waved my hand, trying to be dismissive, so I could get on with what I wanted. "They're just rumours. False rumours, of course, concocted by the Stormcloaks to boost their morale, and gain numbers."

The woman straightened in her chair. When I met her eyes again, she looked even more confused. "But, my Lady, surely you jest."

Now it was my turn to cross my brows. "I am not with the Stormcloaks. You may rest easy on that account, soldier. Now," I pipped, reaching my hand out to cover hers in a familiar manner. "You are a Legion courier, correct?" I asked swiftly.

The woman nodded slowly, watching me closely as though she worried I might Shout at her if she flinched.

I smiled, though my heart hammered. I had thought the Empire didn't believe the rumours? Why was she – well, afraid of me?

"On your rounds, do you visit the encampment in the Pale?" I continued.

She nodded again, but this time replied a little more easily. "I am headed there now, in fact."

"Wonderful," I sat straighter, maintaining my friendly smile. "Would you be able to deliver a letter to a soldier garrisoned there for me?"

"Of course, Lady Dragonborn."

I thanked her and rose, promising to hand her my note before I left with my companion. Then I joined Vilkas, trying to shake off the woman's reservation towards me. To see the effects of the Stormcloaks' rumours on those I had been told did not believe them was unnerving.

With his silvery eyes wary, Vilkas slid a blank scrap of paper and a pen toward me. "What is going on?" he asked plainly.

"Oh," I took up the writing materials, flashing him a small smile. "Thank you."

He seemed unimpressed and waited for me to elaborate, arching an eyebrow.

"It's for the man I..." I faltered again, glancing down to the paper as my throat clenched. When I had realised that I was in love with Hadvar, hours earlier, it had seemed such an easy truth to declare to the world. But actually voicing it to Vilkas, when it might hurt him to know...was another matter entirely.

"Celeste," Vilkas sounded guarded, but there was more weight behind him somehow; more suspicion. "You can tell me the truth, remember? Do you have a sweetheart in the Legion?"

My eyes shot back up to him, wide and searching for his reaction to this – _wait_. He'd said that, not me.

A laugh bubbled out as relief washed through me. Vilkas _couldn't_ be in love with me, to ask that so openly.

"Your _friend_ , who wrote you of the rumours," he leaned forward on his elbows, speaking in a low voice. "He's more than your _friend_ , isn't he?"

Again I laughed at his openness, sitting back and grinning as I stared at my hands. "Yes," I admitted plainly, realising only then that the weight I had detected behind Vilkas' tone was goading. He was _teasing_ me. "Yes," I repeated, more steady. "He risked a lot by writing to warn me."

"Yes, of course," Vilkas mused to the roof sagaciously. "How valiant for a man to write to the woman he loves."

He was clearly enjoying himself.

"Vilkas," I swatted his arm and laughed again as he fended me off. "I have not been able to write him my thanks yet. The Legion courier has agreed to take my letter to him," I explained.

"I understand," Vilkas reached for his drink. "Do what you must, but I want to be on the road in fifteen minutes."

"I'll eat in the saddle," I promised, turning down to the blank paper. "This is more important."

Vilkas _hmmed_ in smug amusement.

Pressed for time and unable to muse over my words, I ignored his tone, and began writing:

 _My dear Hadvar,_

 _Forgive the delay in this reply of my deepest gratitude for the risk you took in sharing all that you did. The contents of your letter came as a shock, but it was gratefully received for it allowed me, and Jarl Balgruuf, to take measures to minimise the impact of the Stormcloaks' rumours in Whiterun._

 _The General has not approached me, and I am relieved to not have to refuse him, for I do not mean to consider joining the war until my Dragonborn duties are fulfilled._

The paper was small, so I couldn't make it a very long letter, but I longed to declare to him some measure of my latest realisation, and wrote on before I could prevent myself.

 _I miss you. Like the frozen lake longs for spring to warm its surface and set its lifeblood free, I miss you. But now I am pledged to my shield-siblings, and soon I shall be swept away to the seclusion of High Hrothgar to answer the Greybeards' call, for Shor knows how long. And you; you are bound to the Empire and this war. I fear that my winter won't see its spring for years to come, as the world endeavours to keep us occupied, and apart._

 _Write to me whenever you can so that I might feel warm again; a single line is all I need._

 _With hope,  
Celeste_

I folded the letter, unwilling to read it over, and scribbled Hadvar's name and garrison on the outside.

"You are done?" Vilkas asked. His chair legs scraped against the flagstones as he pushed back.

I rose as well, nodding as I turned toward the Legion courier. "One more minute."

Passing the note and several pieces of gold for her trouble, I thanked the scout with a bow. "You have no idea of the service you are rendering me," I smiled warmly.

The woman blinked lazily. "Anything for the Dragonborn," she inclined her head; a small, half-smile on her lips.

I had no leisure to dally, so took my leave. "Safe travels, soldier."

"You too, my Lady," she replied cordially.

I left the Nightgate without looking back, comforted in knowing that my letter might reach Hadvar that very night, which meant that upon my return to Whiterun in four days time, his reply might be waiting for me.

It was this hope that would sustain me during the dark day to come.


	30. The Arms of Revenge

_Chapter 30: The Arms of Revenge_

Now that the air was clear I felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted between Vilkas and I.

In its place developed a merciless, what I assumed was _brotherly_ level of teasing from my shield-sibling. I knew that he was using my 'Legion sweetheart' as a distraction from our repressed grief and anxiety over what we would need to do at Driftshade, but I found that I enjoyed talking about Hadvar to Vilkas. Vilkas' reactions to the questions I answered were amusingly perplexed, and made me feel as though I was getting a little revenge from his goading.

" _What_?" he laughed, shaking his head at my latest revelation. "You knew him for _a single day_?"

"And a night," I added defensively.

"Well, that makes _all_ the difference," Vilkas agreed, baiting. "One night _would_ be all it takes-"

"It wasn't like _that_ ," I rolled my eyes and looked away to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks. Would a time would _ever_ come where I would not react so naively to allusions to sex?

"Wasn't like what?" he asked; all innocence.

I ignored him and tried to focus on our path and the surrounds, and not my awkwardness. The mountain pass we were ascending overlooked a thin scattering of snow-laden trees and not much else. The icy breeze came as a relief to my warmed face.

"I thought you were a bard?" he challenged, though there was even a sense of mockery to this. "That is a cruel way end to such a pretty ballad."

I cast him an unimpressed look, to see he had looked away, and was smiling to himself. "All right. The next morning, we...said good bye. He left for Solitude and I walked to Whiterun. That was the night I met you for the first time," I pointed out.

"And you've been writing to one another since?"

I nodded.

Vilkas shook his head and exhaled sharply, widening his eyes. "That must have been _some_ night."

"Ugh," I grated through my teeth, suppressing a nervous laugh. "You're fixating on an irrelevant point."

Vilkas smirked smugly. "Was it that bad?"

"Vilkas," I sighed vexatiously.

"Because, to call spending the night with a man as – what was it you said? An _irrelevant point_ -"

I buried my face in my hands and ground out another groan to cut him off. "I should never have told you anything," I mumbled through my hands.

Vilkas' soft chuckle met my ears. "Watch where you're leading that horse, shield-sister," he prompted.

Remembering where we were, I lowered my hands hastily and grabbed for the reigns with a curse.

Vilkas moved on, asking me of what Farkas had been teaching me while he'd been away.

Grateful, my heart rate steadied. I spoke of my practise with the bow, sword and daggers, and then we talked of whatever came to mind, erring away from anything that might involve discussing, or thinking about the Silver Hand, Ria or Kodlak.

Night fell slowly, given our elevation, and with the sun's departure so did our free, easy talk cease.

Vilkas paused at a junction in the road, peering up at the sign, then glancing out beyond the pillar. In a low, dark mutter, he said; "I can _smell_ them."

I sucked in a breath, concentrating on the burn left by the tiny prickles of ice in the air as they clawed against my throat, in an effort to control my heart rate. I didn't want to distract Vilkas from our quarry. "Are they far?" I whispered, drawing my bay to a halt beside him.

Vilkas shook his head, his eyes still on that point somewhere beyond us. I wondered what he could see out there, or if perhaps he was just staring at nothing while his other senses took hold of his focus?

He remained still for a few moments longer, then dismounted, signalling for me to follow with a tilt of his head toward the side of the road.

We must have been close for Vilkas to revert to gestures. I followed suit, dismounting and patting the passive mare gratefully as I slid past her to stand beside Vilkas.

He was collecting his pack. I had been wearing mine, so I had nothing to retrieve, and waited. After he had chucked it over his shoulders, he flipped up the side of his saddle, and retrieved a selection of weapons that I hadn't realised he had brought. They were small, and rested snugly along his horse's flank. The horse had been protected by the leather sheaths encasing each item, between it and Vilkas' portable armoury. He slung a short, curved bow over one shoulder and a slim, wooden quiver over the other, sheathed a short sword beside the great sword on his hip, and finally, untucked a pair of curved daggers.

Vilkas sheathed one in his belt, then turned and held the second's handle out to me. "If you can use these, you might as well carry one," he rumbled a whisper. His words were absorbed by the snow, without a trace of echo.

I took it with thanks. It was lighter than my dagger, which I had left in my room at Breezehome. I sheathed it beside the short sword he had also given me, wincing at my unpreparedness. When I had darted home to change into my armour, I had neglected to retrieve any of my own blades. At least I had brought my bow, for it was highly likely that it would be all I would use during our mission. Yes, I could sort of use a dagger now, but I didn't want to be close enough to an adversary to have to _need_ to.

With a flick of his wrist, Vilkas motioned for me to draw nearer to him. He leaned down at once, his warm breath whispering across my neck as his lips grazed my ear; "If we are to survive, we must be smart. No sudden movements, and we use our heads before our steel. We always, _always_ observe, before we attack."

I nodded my compliance. Kodlak had told me of Vilkas' methods, so I had expected as much, and truthfully, was grateful for it. Stealth would keep us _both_ alive.

Vilkas went on. "We'll have to lead the horses away and walk back," he added darkly. "But, stay close."

"If you are about to turn," I spoke up hurriedly, in a hush of my own. Vilkas froze; paused half way in the act of rising. I met his eyes, steeling myself to voice what I needed to know. "Do you want me to let you?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Never," he growled in a low, thick voice torn from the back of his throat. He turned, leading his horse into the woods.

 _All right_ , I sighed, steeling myself against bite of his response. I led my horse after him, and used the silent walk to assemble a list of songs that I could use, should the need arise, so I didn't have to worry about my mind drawing a blank while under pressure.

After what must have been close to quarter of an hour of trudging through the thickening snow, he stopped by a cluster of low trees.

"Sorry," Vilkas muttered in a grumble.

I drew my horse up next to his so they could huddle together for warmth. "Oh," I blinked as I looked up and met his gaze; fixed on me. "You meant me?" I had thought he had been saying sorry to his horse, for leaving it here in the cold middle of nowhere.

Vilkas motioned for us to depart, and didn't elaborate at once. He didn't bother tying his horse to anything, so I followed his example and turned into step beside him.

After a few footfalls that crunched and squeaked through the fresh, knee-deep snow, he spoke again in a lowered tone. "I'm sorry if I scared you, before."

I shook my head. "You don't scare me," I reminded him, lifting each foot high as I plod after him.

He huffed, disbelief heavy in his response. "Your heart can't lie to me, so why do you?"

I swallowed, thinking over my answer, suppressing the urge to spin whatever first came to mind. After a few beats, I settled on; "My heart is stupid."

Again, he huffed uncertainly. The resultant white cloud puffed out, obscuring his face.

"No, it is," I poked him in the ribs, trying to grin through my chattering teeth. "It fell in love with a man I knew for a single day and night, remember?"

Vilkas shook his head and I heard a faint, wary chuckle from him. He didn't reply, but led us around a bubbling streamlet frozen on both edges, and then by a copse of snowberry shrubs, with snow clustered thick about their bases and tops overflowing with ripe, ruby globes of fruit.

"You are in love with this Hadvar, then?" he asked quietly.

I glanced to Vilkas, my brows crossing. Had I not...? No, perhaps I had not spoken the exact words out loud to him.

Vilkas' eyes were trained forward; his chin high and eyes flickering back and forth searching the expanse of rocks, shrubbery and snow beyond for the shortest, and safest route.

"I am," I replied softly. A bright, joyful glow bloomed in my chest as I openly confirmed what I had told nobody else. "It might not make much sense to you," I added, when Vilkas said nothing. "But it does to me, and that's what matters, after all."

Our feet crunched through the snow for a few beats.

"I am glad for you," he sighed eventually, though it wasn't an unhappy sigh.

It bore a trace of wistfulness that took me aback, so much so that I stopped, turned and reached out to him, resting my hand on his elbow. "Vilkas?" I prompted cautiously.

He stopped and cast me a brief, sideways glance, before his focus returned to the way ahead. "It may have escaped your notice," he murmured, "but Companions do not usually realise love in their lifetime."

I was still confused, and stammered a nervous laugh. "By choice, surely. There are men and women aplenty in Skyrim waiting to be swept off their feet by a tall, handsome Nord warrior."

Vilkas' mouth quirked at one corner and a single eyebrow rose.

I goggled. "You mean that Companions _can't –_ what, is it _forbidden_?" I whispered the last.

"Now is not the time for this," Vilkas warned, easing my hand away with a twist to his shoulder as he resumed walking.

"No, wait," reaffirming my hold, I drew him to a halt. "Will I be thrown out of the Companions if anyone finds out about Hadvar?" I asked, paling.

Now it was Vilkas' turn to look confused. "What?" he muttered.

"You said that Companions can't-"

"I said that we _don't_ , not _can't_."

"Why not?"

With some exasperation, Vilkas glanced in the direction we had been walking, then back to me. "Must we talk about this _now_?"

"You started it," I pointed out.

"Then let me finish it, shield-sister," he hissed, imploring but with that edge of command he adopted when he was about to give an order.

My hand fell from his forearm and I huffed, creating yet another cloud of white between us and hiding the muddled sadness in Vilkas' eyes. The break from his gaze made me realise with a defeated clarity that I was being ridiculous. Now was _really_ not the time to discuss such a thing, and furthermore, whether my shield-siblings entered into relations or not was none of my business.

I couldn't help but feel burned at reticence, given that Vilkas had over the course of the day been enlightened to the full extent of my heart's desires.

Still, I let the matter drop, and we resumed trudging through the thick snow. The night was clear and still, and the only sounds to accompany our footfalls were the occasional rustle of a bush or hoot of an owl. The snow level lowered to ankle-depth, making our progress easier, and swifter, but the night was so cold that my eyes stung and my nose burned the whole walk, despite my exertions. My lips had cracked as the cold, dry air had puffed over them while I breathed. Above us, the moons were yet to rise and the stars shone and glittered brighter than I had ever seen them, as though by ascending into the ranges we had risen high enough to perceive that we were nearer to the heavenly bodies.

While we walked, a green aurora, edged in pink, rippled across the sky, scattering a patina of colour over the snowy landscape, before it lazily curled in on itself and back into nothingness.

After what must have been close to a half-hour since we had left the horses, Vilkas stopped by a small cairn of stones, and crouched.

I crouched as well, looking between him and the marker inquiringly. Vilkas prodded it with a thick digit almost sullenly, but the cairn didn't budge.

With a regretful sigh, he rose and drew his bow from his shoulder in a single, smooth motion, flexing his fingers around the thin handle as he grasped an arrow with the other. He placed it, but did not draw.

He cast me a swift grimace. We were _here_.

I stood and acknowledged with a determined nod, mirroring his actions by drawing my bow and nocking an arrow. There would be no more opportunity for talk, and no more cause for distraction. Kodlak's spirit was depending on us to get this right.

–

Another aurora unfurled across the sky, shuddering as it wrinkled over the shadowy mass of stone and rubble. _Driftshade refuge._

Vilkas and I were crouched behind a wall of snowberry bushes, watching the dilapidated fort for signs of movement. From what I could determine, from the distance we maintained, there were two Silver Hand standing guard, and a signal from Vilkas confirmed my assessment. One was patrolling a doorway, and another - a lookout, was perched up high on the snow-covered, topmost platform.

With a signal from Vilkas that he would take the door guard if I would take the nearer lookout, he raised his readied bow and drew silently. I thanked the Gods that there were only two Silver Hand out here, for as long as our arrows met their targets, we would be able to enter Driftshade refuge unseen.

I pulled back my arrow, aiming at the stationary man. His back was to me. We had been watching long enough to know that he rarely paced and patrolled, as the other did.

Were I aiming for some random rogue or bandit, or some unknowing animal, I would have felt guilty at how plain a target he presented. But this man was a Silver Hand, and the Silver Hand had taken Kodlak and Ria from me, and while there had been no love between Skjor and I, they had taken him from those who loved him. They didn't seem to care that over half of the Circle had been working to rid themselves of the malady that saw them hunted by the sect.

I set my sights on the space just below and between the man's shoulder-blades, where I knew his cruel heart was beating its final thuds. I narrowed my eyes, clearing my mind of everything but the will to purge Skyrim of this blot; to protect what remained of my colleagues – my _family_ , and free the precious soul they had condemned to serve Hircine.

Vilkas nodded, and we both fired. Our arrows made barely a sound as they split the air. Mine impacted first; my target realised, and the man toppled with not a cry, but a gasp. Though he twitched for a moment, he didn't rise again, so I knew that my aim had been true and the death, swift.

Vilkas' arrow struck his mark half a second later; impacting the patrolling Silver Hand's throat and felling him with a cut-off gurgle.

The tower of muscle by my side passed me his bow as he surged to his feet and charged forward, drawing his great sword. He stood over the fallen, flailing, and now silenced Silver Hand he had shot, lowering his booted foot to the man's hips.

I watched, adrenaline coursing through my veins as my eyes flashed with victory. I saw my shield-brother's mouth move as he pinned him, positioning the tip of his great sword over the man's chest, but heard nothing of what he said.

I rose and stepped out of my hiding place, walking toward the one I had felled. He had been an archer; his arrows were now mine. I glanced toward Vilkas in time to see him lean heavily on his sword and spear the Silver Hand's chest with a grunt.

Turning away, I crouched over the one I had shot, grabbing the fistful of arrows that remained in his quiver. A sense of power, dangerous for its potency, surged through me and I stood, grimacing down at the twisted body beneath my feet. With a jerk of my hand, I tugged the arrow I had shot into the man's back free, and flicked it clean of his blood. I replaced it in my bow, ready to fire when required, as I made my way to Vilkas' side.

He'd put away his great sword, but still looked more the wild warrior than I had ever perceived him to be. By way of contrast to his stance, Vilkas' face was a picture of measured calmness, despite the droplets of crimson blood scattered across his cheek. I handed him his bow, and he nodded his thanks before wiping the back of his hand across his face, smearing the specks. In the same motion, he shifted past me and made for the now-unguarded door to the fort.

I cast a glance at the man he had shot, knowing now that Vilkas had aimed for his throat to deliver the killing blow to his face. I wasn't certain if I felt horrified or awed or appeased by what he had done. At that moment I was more curious at my lack of remorse, or even nausea as I beheld the dead body of an armoured Nord man with short, ashen hair. His eyes were wide and his mouth was agape. I leaned down and tugged the arrow Vilkas had shot into his throat free with a wet 'slurp', flicking it idly as I watched a flower of glistening blood, like a snowberry juice stain, pool in the wound and trickle down his neck, marring the pristine white snow. The smell of it made my stomach lurch, finally.

I turned and hastened after Vilkas, and reached his side as he opened the door a crack. We both stilled as the hinges creaked, but after a second when no sound came from within, I righted my arrow in my bow and raised it. Vilkas pushed the doorway open a little further with his foot; this time it was soundless.

I inhaled, preparing to exhale and fire, but there was nobody waiting for us in the entryway. All there was, was a short flight of poorly-lit stairs. Vilkas stepped into the building without ceremony, pressing his back to one of the walls, and I pressed my back to the one opposite him, dogging his every step.

He peered into the room beyond, then leaned back swiftly, holding up his hand to me with two fingers raised. _Two Silver Hand._

 _We can do this_ , I realised with a surge of bright confidence as I edged toward the room, lining my sights on the Silver Hand nearest to us; a bored-looking man with white-blonde hair, sitting with his legs crossed, dressed in scanty hide armour that left his chest and arms exposed. He was speaking to the man sat opposite him, though their words were quiet enough that they came to my ears, at least, as incomprehensible murmurs. I wondered that he didn't freeze to death in his ensemble. But of course, the cold would never trouble him again.

Vilkas fired, and I fired immediately after. As both of our marks had been unmoving; sat at a table in a junction between opposite hallways, our arrows struck true. The Silver Hand crumpled in their chairs, silent; my target with an arrow protruding out of his temple, and Vilkas' with an arrow between his eyes.

I glanced to Vilkas, unwilling to move without being given leave to do so. He glanced to me, his mouth set straight, though he raised an eyebrow at me and nodded, somewhat appreciatively.

I smiled a small, gratified smile in return, and my cheeks pinked at the notion of Vilkas being impressed, thus far. He had been my first real teacher, and it was pleasing to think that he was proud of me.

He slid into the room and made for one of the corridors. While he begrudged it and strove to keep the beast from taking control of him, it was clear he was letting the werewolf, or at least its senses, guide us.

The Silver Hands' refuge was no great challenge to traverse, owing to Vilkas ability to detect all bodies that stood before us. He was able to sniff out our targets, well before they might have heard our approach, had we been blundering through the keep.

I had expected that I would fall into the role that I had taken with both Hadvar and Faendal on this expedition; that while Vilkas felled the foes before us, I would trail behind, carrying whatever needed carrying, and collecting anything that I thought might be of use to us. But, surprisingly, the roles were somewhat reversed.

He always led, but he didn't allow me the leisure of falling behind to be his pack horse. Each time we stood in the shadows before our next targets, he would issue wordless instruction to me with hand signals and nods. If there was only one Silver Hand in the room, he would motion for me to fire, and would only raise his own bow as cover once I had taken aim.

I fired a lot of arrows, and I didn't miss. Sometimes my aim was off; the arrow would land in a leg or shoulder instead of a chest or head, but Vilkas' contingency arrow would silence the lone man or woman a second later.

While I was pleased that Vilkas and I had adopted a determined focus since entering the building, which served to make our aim truer and actions more certain, there was only the mildest sense of grim satisfaction roused by each Silver Hand we finished off. This was a grisly task that needed undertaking, and while I could not care for the lives I was ending, no sense of comfort grafted itself onto the bursts of potent power that tore through me. Hours ago I had been Celeste Passero, Thane of Whiterun, Dragonborn and bard, but within Driftshade, I became simply a shield-sister exacting revenge on those who killed my Harbinger, with my shield-brother. But, the revenge did not feel sweet, as stories insisted it was.

We fell into a pattern, of sorts. After we cleared a room I would retrieve our arrows, if they were retrievable. Sometimes, they would snap when I tried to tug them out of the felled Silver Hand, and other times they were so far embedded into a body that I left it, rather than waste the time and energy it would take to free it in one piece. Very occasionally, Vilkas would appear by my side grasping a spoil, usually in the form of a book he thought was worth liberating, or a potion that we might find useful. Either he would put it in my pack, or he would hand it to me, so I could place it in his.

After purging what seemed to be the wine cellar and the vat room beyond of its somewhat tipsy inhabitants, Vilkas and I stood motionless before a large hole hewn into the wall, which opened up into an icy, rocky tunnel.

We exchanged a grimace. We had hoped that we would find Wuuthrad in this cellar somewhere, and that out task would be complete. Shor knew how long this tunnel would go on for, or where it would lead, or how many Silver Hand might be on the other side. But there was nothing to do but go on.

After no more than three steps into the ice tunnel, Vilkas stilled, standing tall and inhaling a sharp breath.

I jumped at his reaction. "What is-?" I hissed.

He instantly held his hand out to cover my mouth, shooting me a hard glance and shaking his head pointedly.

Again I grimaced and he lowered his hand and leant down, biting out a single, shuddering word against the shell of my ear.

" _Werewolves_."

He withdrew, and I saw a glimmer of gold wash over his narrowed, silvery eyes as he turned away.

A bolt of fear crashed through me, not at the thought of werewolves but at the thought of him _turning_. I reached out to grasp Vilkas' hand, shaking as I squeezed it to encourage him to turn back to me.

He did. His eyes were silver again, though he looked guilty as he met mine.

I leaned up to him cautiously, pushing his hair back to cup his ear. Standing on my toes, in _sotto voce_ , I sang:

" _When frost returns and the rivers choke-_ "

"I'm fine," Vilkas murmured gruffly and tried to push me away. There was little effort behind the shove; he was clearly distracted.

I let him detangle our hands but swiftly replaced it on his chest, gripping his armour around one of its segmented seams. He would hear me.

" _The sun dips in the sky beneath evening smoke.  
The wise Nord knows though his strength may fade,  
It is time to plan, and time to save..._"

I withdrew far enough to check his eyes. Still, he looked ashamed.

"You can do this," I told him quietly, resting my cheek on his breastplate with a sigh as I settled into an encouraging hug.

He was tense, coiled like a spring. I felt the ghost of his hand hover over my back, and clenched my eyes closed when he didn't make contact.

His hands fell to my arms, and he detangled me, shaking his head. "I said I'm fine," he repeated in a grim mutter.

He un-shouldered his bow and made a motion with his hand for us to proceed, and in silence.

With a quiet sigh, I trailed after him. Vilkas knew his limits, and I had to trust him. He was master of his emotions. His eyes might flash gold when he was surprised or fearful, giving temporary way to the beast, but there would be no yielding to it. He was too controlled for that.

The ice tunnel led to a hand-carved ice cave with a low ceiling. Vilkas motioned for me to pass and shoot first. I obeyed, and once I had taken out the first of the Silver Hand idling in the room, Vilkas fired upon the second before she had realised what was going on.

I turned back to my shield-brother, expecting him to step past me as was the routine, but he was rooted to the spot. When I lay an enquiring hand on his arm, he jumped and his eyes gleamed that deadly, amber hue so swiftly that I pulled my hand back as though he had burned me.

The gold was gone but he glared and shook his head in warning. However unwanted my contact was at this moment, it seemed to have been the awakening he needed, for he then proceeded into the room.

I stepped in after him and gasped at what I had failed to see from the shadowed tunnel; cages. A wall of cages, each wedged into the long ice cave wall. Within most of the cages were werewolves, standing tall and silently watchful, their laboured breaths creating puffs of fog before their small, shining eyes and massive maws. I froze as my instincts commanded I flee, and clamped down on them as a remorseful pity overwhelmed me, squashing the fear.

I glanced into each cage as we walked through the terrible room. The beasts were littered with lacerations and welts, shorn patches of fur and pepperings of brands. One of the werewolves had been blinded, some time ago, and had only dried scars where its eyes had once been. Its jaw rose, its wet nose sniffed the air, and its head swivelled in my direction as I beheld it.

I took a step toward its cage, though I was not fool enough to draw near enough to touch it, or for it to reach through its bars to me. But – I had to wonder. Could singing for these beasts help them, as it helped the Circle? I had to try. If I could ease their torment – this torture they had suffered, for Shor knew how long – I had to try.

"Hurry up."

Vilkas grabbed my arm and towed me in his wake.

"No – wait," I tugged against him and skidded for a moment, stumbling as I wrenched out of his grasp. My knees impacted the cold, hard ground and I winced.

"Don't look at them," Vilkas growled as he stooped down to help me up. "Stop looking at them and remember why we are here. For _Kodlak_."

I glanced up, my eyes wide and suddenly filled with tears.

"Stop _doing_ that," his commanded, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched. "Your heart cannot bleed with compassion for these _monsters_. You will send them into a frenzy."

"But, can't we... _do_ something?" I whispered. He made to grab for me, and I leaned back in time, shooting him an accusing glare. I was tired of his manhandling me, and shuffled back further, pressing the palms of my hands against the floor and rising for myself.

He rose and huffed in frustration, glancing everywhere but me. I dusted myself off and retrieved my bow, which I had dropped when I had fallen. Vilkas' eyes fell to the nearest caged werewolf; a great, hulking creature with a twisted arm cradled to its chest. I blinked and froze as I realised its narrowed gaze was fixed hungrily on me. When I met its eyes, it growled warningly; a low rumble from the back of its throat.

Vilkas stepped between us, blocking my view, baring his teeth to the creature and growling back.

"Stop it," I told him sharply, shoving past him to look upon the werewolf again. The beast was frightened, and posed me no threat from within its cage. Its breaths wheezed between its sharp teeth, and there was a lot of fresh blood matted in the fur on its broken arm.

Vilkas' hand felt to my shoulder; encouraging me to turn away.

"You can't help it," he told me in dour frustration.

"Why not?" I asked quietly.

Vilkas' hold grew gentler, and he coaxed me to step back a few more steps.

"Because they are lost," he said flatly. "They have been tortured to the point that they forget what it is to be human."

His fingertips were on my chin, turning me gently to look up to him. I allowed it, meeting his defeated, silvery gaze; my own pleading for him to tell me not of their defeat, but of hope. There had to be _some_ hope for them.

"They will never shift back again," he spoke evenly, lowering his hand slowly.

I shook my head in disbelief. "How can you know that?" I questioned softly.

"Because, shield-sister," he sighed, easing his arm over my shoulder and guiding me toward the tunnel that lead out of the room. "I have been doing this for a lot longer than you."

Vilkas didn't guide or command because he craved power; there was always more to his orders, and they were always governed by his common sense and own expanse of experiences. Admonished, I lowered my eyes and let him lead us. "You have seen rooms and treatment like this before?"

"Mm hmm."

"Many times?"

"A fair number," he replied flatly.

I exhaled weightily, closing my eyes as the subjugation exuded by the room tugged at me. "And you tried to help them, didn't you?" I made myself ask.

"Once," he admitted, slowing as we neared the tunnel. He lowered his voice and his arm, turning to cast a final glance at the horrific room of tortured beasts, who, should we succeed, would die abandoned where they were from hunger, or their injuries. It may have been cowardly to think it, but I was grateful that Vilkas had not suggested we put them out of their misery.

"What happened?" I asked

I already knew what he would say.

"It attacked me," Vilkas grimly squared. "It was fraught with hunger and bloodlust – beyond any token of reason. I had to let the beast take hold of me to kill it, or it would have torn my throat out," he muttered. "Yet another failure."

Vilkas shook his head then and strode past, gripping his bow tightly. I trailed after him, trying to push the sights of the cage chamber from my mind. We were here to put an end to the Silver Hand. That would put an end to such torture.

The hallway led to another chamber. I stole a glance around the end of the tunnel. Vilkas whipped me back, but I had seen enough. I closed my eyes and shuddered as I reigned back a scream. It was worse than the previous chamber.

Before I could recover, Vilkas urgently shoved his bow into my arms.

My eyes flew open in time to see him unsheath his great sword and dart into what I knew, from that brief glance, to be the torture chamber.

"No!" I whispered, throwing Vilkas' bow over my shoulder to fumble for my own, placing an arrow hastily and drawing as I turned into the open room.

It was already over. Vilkas had beheaded the torturer; a Silver Hand woman wearing a plain set of dark, blood-splattered robes. The only other inhabitants of the room were two werewolves. They were both restrained, chained to altars. Wherever the chains met their fur, curls of smoke rose. The air was thick with the smell of singed hair and warm blood. My eyes locked onto the laboured, slowly rising and falling chests, but the beasts were otherwise completely still and didn't utter a sound.

"Move," Vilkas broke through my trance, blocking my view of the suffering. His voice was full of furious authority. " _For Kodlak_ ," he insisted.

I lowered my bow, un-shouldered his, and hurried back to his side as I fumbled for a way to stave off the horror and nausea and regret.

"Can we not at least remove the chains-?" I asked as I reached his side and determinedly set my eyes on him. I was too afraid to look back.

"They will attack, and you will die," Vilkas reminded me. "Better that they die from silver poisoning and we finish what we started, so this doesn't happen again."

I wanted to scream at the injustice our cleansing had exposed, but remained silent as Vilkas forged our way through the next passageway. I followed, asking myself, honestly, what had I expected to find? I had gone into this mission _knowing_ that the Silver Hand revelled in torturing the werewolves they captured. This, I realised with a jolt, was what they had done to Skjor, and what they would have done to Aela, had Farkas not saved her. No wonder they had been out there, night after night, to eradicate as many Silver Hand as they could find.

Nausea rose within me at the reminder that each and every werewolf we had passed by had once been a _person_ , with parents and friends, possibly even a family of their own. What had possessed them to devote their souls to Hircine? Had they been tricked into accepting the beast-blood, as the Circle had by the Glenmoril witches? Or had they embraced it freely, to gorge on the fleeting strength it would grant them before they had been captured?

The next chamber was smaller, and gratefully, contained no more scenes or torture, but when I shot the only occupant, he fell with a loud, startling clatter and cried out loudly. Vilkas and I stilled, and waited. If there were any Silver Hand in any adjoining rooms, there was no way they could not have heard _that_.

Unfortunately, there was, and they had. After a pregnant pause, a clatter of booted feet on the icy rock floor came to us. Vilkas tensed, slipping past me and drawing his bow with the leading arrow.

A Silver Hand, short sword raised, burst into the room. "Amider's down! Fall back to your positions!" he cried into the hallway he'd emerged from.

Vilkas fired on the man. The arrow speared his eye, and the man let out a blood-curdling scream, falling back from the impact and clawing at the arrow shaft as his body convulsed.

The call to fall back was ignored, and as the Silver Hand Vilkas had shot shuddered his final throes, _nine_ more Silver Hand darted into the room with their weapons at the ready.

Vilkas turned to grab me and run, but I whipped out of reach as a raging, potent influence commanded me to face these torturers and murderers. It pushed me forward, into the room.

" _FUS_ ," I shouted, uncaring of whether the Silver Hand saw me or not.

The chamber was relatively small; all nine Silver Hand fell back from the force of my thu'um, crashing into the wall.

I lifted my bow, but Vilkas managed to grab my hand before I could draw. He towed me after him as he bolted back toward the torture chamber. I kept on with him, or my arm might have been pulled out of its socket. As we ran, I acknowledged that there was no way, even with my thu'um, that we could take nine Silver Hand at once. I could fire on one and Vilkas another, while the remaining seven descended on us. But, my shout _had_ bought us some time to gain a little ground. Maybe, we could find somewhere to hide. Maybe, we could pick them off, one by one. I could use _FUS_ to scatter them, at each turn, and maybe, _maybe_ , we would survive this.

Pointedly ignoring the torture chamber, we turned and skidded around the corner into the next tunnel. Vilkas reaffirmed his grip; his fingers squeezing a firmer hold of mine. I clamped onto his hand in response.

The sound of running boots in pursuit came to me. I could hear shouting; taunts, by their tone, echoing through the tunnel behind us, and sounding too close for comfort.

As we entered the next chamber, the one full of cages, an idea came to me. I twisted my wrist free of Vilkas' hold and darted to the nearest cage, unsheathing my short sword for the first time since Whiterun and levering it around the lock.

"What are you doing?" Vilkas thundered.

I groaned with effort as I strained all of my weight into a push. "Buying us more time!" I uttered through my teeth.

I was rewarded by the sound of twisting metal, and the gate holding the werewolf at bay swung open.

Without waiting to see what the creature within did with its newfound freedom, I darted to another cage, catching a glimpse of Vilkas as I ran. He was standing before another cage and was breaking the hinges with his great sword.

The trapped beasts seemed to all at once realise that they were being freed, and started howling and barking, snarling and growling, filling the room with a cacophony of ravenous, echoing cries.

The cage before me sprung open as my short sword found the right angle to lever the metal aside, and I was flung back as the werewolf surged out, its jaws frothing and its sharp teeth bared as it raged at me. It pushed the cage door onto me, slamming my back into the outside bars of its prison, effectively caging me. It gripped the door in its clawed hands and tried to bite me through the gaps between the metal rods, but its jaw was too large to push between the bars. I was stunned; my head swam from impact, but understood that if it discovered I was merely caught behind the door and not caged myself, I was dead.

A furious growl broke through the confusion and the pressure holding me between the bars let go as the werewolf was hauled away. Vilkas, whole and himself, dragged the creature back by the scruff of its neck and redirected it, pushing it toward the hallway that lead to the torture chamber.

The beast didn't seem to care that it had been denied its meagre feast, for it immediately saw that another larger one laid out, and loped toward it.

I startled back, my back aching and bruised from the cage bars, as I realised that all nine Silver Hand had made it to the room already. Gratefully, they were occupied in the process of fending off the three werewolves we had managed to free.

The cage door was flung aside and I leapt again at the suddenness of the near movement. Vilkas said nothing, his eyes narrowed accusingly, but the look was gone in a second and he grabbed my wrist in a truer hold than before.

"Come on," he hissed.

I realised that, regardless of his look, the plan had worked. The Silver Hand were too busy fighting werewolves to fall on us.

And now we had to leave, for no matter what happened in this room, the victors would hunt us down next.

So we ran, back through the ice tunnels and into the main building, through the cellar, and all the way back to the vat room.

Vilkas let go of me and fell down onto a bundle of furs that might have once been a bedroll, crashing onto his forearms and knees as he gasped for air.

I fell beside him, rolling onto on my back and coughing up dry air as my lungs burned and my chest heaved. My vision swam and stars exploded then twirled before my eyes. Momentarily, I closed them, trying to steady at least that sense. I was relieved to feel the pain in my chest begin to subside.

"We form our defence here," Vilkas told me through vaguely laboured breaths.

I opened my eyes and turned just my head. He had sat back on his heels with his eyes on the route we had just run, and if not for the rising and falling of his chest, I would have ventured that he had already entirely recovered from our mad dash.

Turning back to stare at the ceiling, I winced as the hard floor, lumpy backpack and my quiver jabbed at the bar-shaped bruises on my back. "Who do you think will come after us?" I asked in a strained voice.

"If they don't all kill each other, the beasts," Vilkas replied at once. I felt his eyes on me, but didn't meet his gaze. I knew that the accusation I had seen before would be back there.

"We won't have long," he added pointedly.

I nodded, closing my eyes again as an ache in my ankle made its presence known. Had I done that when I had stumbled earlier? Strange that I was only feeling it now.

"Are you all right?" he persisted in a quieter tone.

 _No scolding_ , I noted with relief, opening my eyes and nodding. I reached my hand out and he clasped it solidly, easing me up into a sitting position. "I just need a potion."

"Here, let me," Vilkas reached over and eased my pack off my shoulders gingerly, then began rifling through it.

After he'd handed me two little red bottles and I'd devoured the disgusting contents, I felt more myself, and Vilkas and I were able to prepare to meet whatever stuck its nose out into the vat room.

We waited, sat against one of the back walls of the room, hidden in the shadows, with eyes trained and bows readied with arrows placed, but not aimed. Vilkas had said he would tell me when he smelled anything approaching, and then we could stand and take aim.

Time ticked away in silence. Minutes passed, and there was nothing, not even a distant echo of a sound.

After perhaps fifteen minutes of still nothing, I hazarded an enquiring glance at Vilkas. He noticed my look, then lazily drew his eyes back to the opening we had been watching, shaking his head. "There's nothing. No one," he corrected, leaning his head back against the wall with a _thunk_.

"What do we do?" I prompted.

There was a moment's hesitation, then he leaned forward and rose with a groan. "The only thing we can do," he turned, extending his hand. "We go on."

Once I was up, Vilkas made for the door leading to the cellar.

"Remember. We go in quietly and observe," he told me over his shoulder.

"I remember," I acknowledged, falling into step behind him. I repositioned my arrow, fiddling with it to ensure it was secure and ready to be loosed at a heartbeat's notice.

We traversed the cellar and ice tunnel silently, and reached the cage chamber swiftly. Vilkas peered into the room and then whipped back, holding up his hand before I was able to look into the prison room for myself. I could hear nothing from within; the battle was, evidently, over.

I shot Vilkas a questioning look; why delay? I couldn't ask, of course, so I settled for a slight shrug and a perplexed shake to my head.

He grimaced, flicking his hand into the signal that meant ' _stay back_ '.

I obeyed, as I had sworn to do in Jorrvaskr, leaning against the cool, hard tunnel and modulating my breaths so that I could keep my heart rate slow and steady. The last thing the room full of caged werewolves, or any of three we had released, or Vilkas for that matter, needed, was the smell of a fluttering, anxious heart. I watched Vilkas slip around the tunnel and disappear into the room, and still heard nothing. No sounds of alarm, or attack; no howling or growling. Nothing.

I waited, confused, desperately trying to calm my escalating nerves as the silence lengthened. After a minute or two that felt like a week, Vilkas appeared in the tunnel opening, and motioned for me to enter.

Racing to his side, I glanced around the cage room fitfully with my bow raised and ready as I let my anxiety take hold of me. My heart leapt and thudded as I beheld... _nothing._ Sure, the cages were still there – as were the werewolves, excepting the three we had released. But there were no bodies in the middle of the room...or anywhere else.

"What's going on?" I whispered, narrowing my eyes and lowering my bow. Had they fallen back to another room?

Vilkas put his hand on my shoulder as he passed by, casting me a hard look. "Clamp down on those nerves, shield-sister," he murmured.

"Vilkas, where are they?"

He met my eyes and I caught a flash of regret. "We're safe. They're gone."

"Where?" I asked genuinely, glancing back to the empty scene. I had expected to see nine twisted, possibly partially devoured bodies littering the ground.

With a frustrated sigh, Vilkas charged onward for the adjoining tunnel. "Is it not enough to know they have killed one another? Must you see the evidence for yourself?"

I hurried after him. "That's not – I'm just surprised," I admitted, taken aback by Vilkas' response. "It seems strange that _nobody_ won..." I added in a murmur.

He said nothing this time, but he didn't need to. Finally, I saw them; the remains of the bloodied bodies of the Silver Hands, and the dark, furred masses that could only be the three werewolves. They weren't sprawled over the scene; no, all that remained there was some blood splatters on the ground, which I hadn't been able to see when I had first glanced around the chamber. The remains of the bodies had been piled up in one of the open cages.

Vilkas' disappearance when we had reached the room was explained; _he_ had done this, and I could determine only one reason for it. He'd not wanted me to see what a werewolf could do to a human.

Once we entered the tunnel that led to the torture chamber, I doubled my steps to walk beside him.

"Thank you," I told him truthfully. "But. I could have helped you. That must have been – if I'd realised what you were doing-" I faltered, unable to settle on what I wanted to say.

"You had no cause to know," he cut me off, his eyes set on the path ahead. "What's done is done," he added, with finality.

"Indeed it is," I muttered sadly.

I noticed his eyes drift back to me from the corner of my vision, and felt a need to explain.

"I know they were all already dead, either way," I sighed, averting my eyes as we entered the torture chamber, but not soon enough; the two werewolves were also dead; the silver chains had cut clean through them.

I swallowed back a rising lump in my throat as I covered my mouth with my hand. "Oh, Gods," I muttered, swaying a little as one of my feet rolled over a more uneven section of hewn floor.

"Easy," Vilkas grumbled, catching me about my shoulders, then leading me purposefully into the next tunnel. "We've won," he added in the same defeated tone that I had used. "There are no more Silver Hand between us and Wuuthrad," he continued.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Images flit before my eyes; the caged werewolves who had suffered so cruelly; the gooey remains of the Silver Hand piled with the three dead werewolves we had set upon them; the two werewolves who we had seen living, breathing in laborious agony moments ago, whose silver bindings had cut them to pieces by the time we had returned.

I found my voice as we entered new, smaller room, with gold and jewels scattered on a far table and chairs cluttered around it. At one end of it sat a familiar-looking backpack.

Vilkas made straight for the table, with me still under his wing. "Kodlak's spirit will be freed," he murmured, "and both Skjor and Ria have been avenged."

I turned up to look over his wide, set jaw, peppered with black stubble.

"And you?" I asked. "You, and Farkas – you will be freed too, won't you?"

He glanced down as we reached the table, then un-looped his arm to retrieve the pack. He glanced within, then nodded. "Yes. For all the price we have paid to obtain it, Farkas and I will be free," he acknowledged grimly.

That was good, wasn't it? After everything they had endured, their inner torment was nearly at its end.

I could not rejoice in our success. We left Driftshade, and I couldn't help but feel as though we had lost, or left something of ourselves, within.

–

A bleak weariness overcame me as Vilkas and I made our way back across the snow. While we had been in Driftshade, day had come and was almost gone again, and we had seen none of it.

It was dusk; the sky above was the palest blue, washed with pinked clouds lined in burnt orange. The snow about our feet had adopted a dull blue-grey hue.

I felt as though I was wading through an ocean, and was colder than I had ever been in my entire life, both inside and out.

Vilkas didn't speak, and I wished that he would. My own mind was swimming, reeling, preventing me from knitting together thoughts that didn't centre on what we had seen and done. I had to acknowledge that perhaps Vilkas felt the same way.

We had won, as Vilkas had grimly announced back in the bowels of the Silver Hand hideout. But it was a hollow victory, for no success would bring Ria or Kodlak back, or strike the horrors of Driftshade from our memories.

Vilkas bit out a curse through clenched teeth, making me jump at the suddenness.

He turned to me hastily. "Sorry," he grated. "But – this _damnable_ silence – can't you break it? Please – tell a story, or sing – just _say_ something – _anything_?" he asked, exasperated.

I looked down to the snowy expanse, watching my booted foot crunch through the surface and then sink through the powder, half way up my shin. I felt disconnected from the action. The part of my mind that _was_ still understanding external stimuli reminded me that Vilkas had asked a question.

"I suppose," I agreed flatly, because I could think of no excuse to refuse him. "If you will tell me what to sing for once," I added.

Vilkas sounded more at ease when he replied. "I will hear whatever you offer. You could recite your most recent shopping list and I would be contented; it is your voice that I need," he muttered.

My gaze drifted to him, dimly wondering at his admission, though I was too forlorn to query it. I shook my head instead. "Don't leave it to me to come up with something appropriate tonight. I will cause us both harm."

Again, Vilkas cursed, though it was in an undertone this time. "You are exhausted. We can't stop here – but the horses are not far. I have stamina potions, in my pack-"

"I feel nauseous enough as it is," I grimaced, exhaling sharply in an effort to draw on whatever reserve I had as I took my next deep, shuddering breath. "And, singing will not make me any _more_ tired. What would you hear?" I repeated. I was tired, but I could sleep in the saddle, if he would lead our horses.

He hesitated, considering his options. For a time, the only sounds were the squeak and crunch of our boots through the snow.

"Do you...know _Hymn to Kyne_?" he asked eventually, sounding uncertain. "It is a song I remember from..." he trailed off.

I nodded hastily, clearing my throat and eager to begin. "Of course. _In darkness, your light shines-_ " I cut myself off, to clear my throat again; it was scratchy and dry.

"Perhaps you should wait until you are rested," Vilkas resolved.

I shook my head, stopping to unhook my water skin from my pack – only to find that the water had frozen solid. I frowned at it, feeling dim and wondering what to do next, when Vilkas' hand, holding his own water skin, entered my field of view.

I murmured a thank you and took a long drink, before attempting the song again:

" _In darkness, your light shines through,  
Warrior Goddess, for you we strike true._"

The tune came easier this time, and I was pleased to see Vilkas' shoulders relax as the quiet notes hung between us. I managed a small smile, suddenly grateful that he had asked for a song. " _When hope is lost and war rages on, Warrior Goddess, hear our blessed song._ "

Singing made me warmer, somehow, and the melody worked its way into the recesses of shadow pooling on my soul, eating away at the bleakness. I sang on quietly as the evening darkened around us, and started to take more notice of the landscape, hearing subtle sounds I had not noticed earlier; the whisper of the wind, the rustle of a few scant trees before us, the flutter of wings as a restless or perhaps spooked bird flew away.

" _Grant us courage to fight and sharpen our swords,  
Warrior Goddess, mother of Nords_," I slowed down at its close, clearing my throat again and staring up to the sky. It was indigo now, and awash with the brightest of bright stars again, just as it had been the previous night, before Driftshade had happened. I could feel Vilkas' eyes land on me, but couldn't look away from the beautiful, sparkling heavens. There was life, everywhere I looked, and it was replenishing.

Vilkas wasn't the type to applaud a performance with raucous hand clapping, so I didn't expect a response. I was surprised when I felt the Nord's arm drape over my shoulder comfortably, and _more_ surprised to hear his long, resigned sigh.

"Celeste," he murmured. "Why couldn't you have been mine?" he asked wistfully to the winds.

My mounting serenity fled, and I tensed at his words, and his yearning tone. Had I...really heard what I thought I had? And, if yes, how he could be so... _casual_ about it?

I must have misheard him, I reasoned, but I remained silent, for I had no idea what he might have said otherwise.

"It's all right," he laughed softly, jostling me under his arm. "Calm that racing heart of yours, and stop thinking what I know you must be thinking."

A response was required of me this time, so I struggled to find one. "I'm not sure of what I am thinking," I admitted slowly, with a frown. "I thought..."

 _I thought you didn't care for me that way._ I couldn't voice it. Did he-? But – no, of course he didn't – I had spent the better part of a day telling him all about Hadvar – about how much I was in _love_ with him!

"Ah. Good. Now, you are thinking about your Legion sweetheart," he supplied casually, casting me a sideways smirk. "Your heart flutters for him – I can hear it, now that I know what to listen for. I will never try to rob you of that."

I couldn't help but flush as incredulity swept over me. "That's not fair," I muttered, looking away, hyper-conscious of his arm on my shoulder. It wasn't the first time he had offered warmth, openly and without agenda, and I was too uncertain of how to react to shrug him off; it would be taken the wrong way, no matter how I did it. "Your senses read me like an open book. I have told you everything, and you still know more about me than I do."

"I don't want to hear your heart," Vilkas offered with a shrug.

"I know," I sighed. I trained my eyes on the shadowy clump of bushes before us – I was certain that was where we had left the horses. Thank the Gods, we were nearly there.

"And, I want to be able to speak truths to you, as you do to me," he went on as though I hadn't acknowledged. "You are difficult to ignore. Particularly when we're in contact, which I thought you must have known, and then..." he trailed off, reconsidering. "Before you told me about Hadvar, I thought..." he faltered again, then huffed out yet another sigh. "But of course you didn't."

I turned from under his arm to look at his face, perplexed, but his expression was flat. He was attempting to make light of...whatever this was, but his last had failed him miserably. Truthfully, I wasn't certain what exactly he was admitting. He did not love me – that was clear. So, what _was_ he saying? That he would have _liked_ to love me, if I had been able to love him?

Guilt flushed through me. I _had_ encouraged him, first with songs, then conversation, then the comfort of contact, but it had not been out of want of a lover. I had yearned for his acceptance. To belong to the Companions; to be needed by them. I had laboured to win him, for this new family I had been assembling about myself since I had left Solitude.

"I'm sorry if I..." I whispered, but faltered as I searched for the right words.

"Don't be," he supplied.

It sounded as though he meant it. When he turned down to regard me and half-smiled, my heart twisted in apology, but the sorrow was bittersweet. In a moment of disconnection, I wondered what might have been had I not met Hadvar the day before I had met Vilkas. Had my heart not been swept away to the Pale with my Legion sweetheart, might I have come to care for Vilkas in that way? _Would_ I have loved him?

He noticed this change of course, and tilted his head to one side. "What was _that_?" he bit back a laugh.

A laugh rose out of me in response, and I turned away from him swiftly. "You know that I love you as a brother, Vilkas," I admitted, grateful for the cool air on my flushed cheeks.

"I did _not_ know that, shield-sister," he replied with evident amusement.

He was about to start teasing me again, wasn't he? "Yes, you do," I persisted with a sideways glance, elbowing him in the ribs. My elbow met armour, but still he must have felt it, for he arched himself out of range.

"I am a Companion, and you are family. And as such, you _know_ ," I smiled at him, determined to hold onto him – as he was – and not lose him to an awkward conversation to be blustered through after such a horrible, strenuous day. "You know that what we have is important. It binds us. In some ways," I shrugged, "it's stronger that love. Family can never..." I faltered, realising where I was inadvertently leading us. We were nearly back to Kodlak. His presence, his importance would never leave us, no matter the void his loss wrought, now and forever.

" _Indeed we cannot leave them; for they will forever remain in our hearts and minds, for as long as we live and breathe,"_ Kodlak had once said to me. His words floated through my mind; clear but quiet, in a trace of a whisper.

I sighed, and the fleeting lightness I had felt dissolved again.

Vilkas shuddered a breath and his hold around my shoulders tightened; "Yes. I know."

We left the conversation there, and we reached the horses in silence. They were huddled together for warmth, just as Vilkas and I were, and all around them were visible signs of their temporary habitation of the little grove, and reluctance to leave the place they had been left; snow kicked up and tossed aside to expose green shoots that they had grazed on, and piles of manure sank through the snow drifts here and there.

"Good girl," I murmured as my bay clopped toward me and pressed her nose to my palm. Her breath snorted warmly against my skin in reply. Skyrim's horses were known Tamriel-wide to be the most loyal and sedate of breeds, and Vilkas had somehow chosen the two that most lived up to this standard.

Vilkas left me by my horse to ready his own, tucking away his extra weapons under the saddle rug as before. I mounted up slowly, carefully, then remembered the dagger he had loaned me.

"Here. As grateful as I was for it, I'm glad that I didn't need to use it," I held it out to him, handle first.

Vilkas turned enquiringly, then spotted the dagger and shook his head. "Keep it until we're back in Jorrvaskr," he rumbled, folding down the flap of his horse's saddle, to mount up for himself. "Shor knows what we'll encounter on the journey home."

The words ' _but it's over_ ' died in my throat, and I nodded in acknowledgement.

Somehow the journey down the mountain was slower than the ascent had been. Perhaps it was because I was so weary, or perhaps it was that we were no longer being driven by a vengeful desire to complete our goal. Either way, we rode the entire night away. For parts of it, Vilkas _did_ take my bay's reigns, and I was able to lean over the enormous horse's neck and close my eyes for a few precious moments of rest.

These snatches of sleep during the still, clear, freezing night made our descent even more surreal than any other part of the quest had been. I would wake from terrible, short, vivid dreams with a small start, all harkening to the events of the past few days, and then the smell and warmth of the horse would invade my senses and I would sit up and pinch myself to check that I was not still dreaming. I would glance up to the stars, Masser and Secunda, and trace how much further across the sky they had travelled while I had dozed, in a futile effort to keep track of the time.

The sameness of the frozen landscape continued on with the only real variation being a few more taller, snow-laden evergreens here and there. As the skies pinked and the sun rose over the eastern ridges, Vilkas broke our silence.

"We're nearing the Nightgate," he told me quietly. "Another half hour, at most, at this rate."

I nodded, grateful, turning in the saddle to face him. "I'll pay for the room this time, since I am the one who'll make use of it."

Vilkas scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. He opened his mouth to reply, but then his brows furrowed, and he closed his mouth at once, glancing to the other side of the road across a snowy plain between rises.

"Vilkas?"

My shield-brother held up a hand for us to stop, his eyes fixed on the embankment.

I was too tired to be scared, though my heart gave a weak leap at the sudden change, perhaps out of habit. Vilkas seemed merely cautious or even curious.

He dismounted. "Stay close to me," he murmured absently.

I nodded and followed, trailing after him toward a pair of tall pine trees. After a minute I realised we were making not for the trees, but for something between them; something low that was neither rock nor shrub.

As we drew closer my face drained of blood as I realised it was a body lying in the snow.

I doubled my steps and bounded to fall into step beside Vilkas. "What has happened here?" I asked in a murmured hush.

Vilkas didn't reply.

Nearer still, it was evident that the crumpled mass was a soldier; Legion leathers, a ruby-red undershirt and chain mail across one of the arms. With a start, I realised that I recognised the fallen officer.

"But that's –" I whispered, then stopped myself, running the final steps to the Imperial scout from the Nightgate inn, and kneeling down beside her.

I turned the courier's head toward me. Her hazel eyes were glassy, her skin was so pale that it was nearly blue, and her lips were devoid of colour. There was a puncture mark, from an arrow I supposed, in between her eyes, but the arrow had been removed.

Regretfully, I sat back on my feet and an emptiness filled what was left of my reserves. There had been too much senseless death in the past days to cope with.

Vilkas crouched beside me,and I glanced toward him, wondering why he had brought us to her, when he would have known, or smelled, that she was already dead.

He was expressionless, but for a small tuck of concern between his brows. He reached toward the satchel on the woman's hip.

"What are you doing?" I bit out, aghast. Vilkas was not going to _loot_ this poor woman's corpse.

He tilted his head to peer inside of her bag, ignoring my outburst. "They're all gone."

" _Who's_ all gone?"

"Not _who_ , what," he confirmed, shooing me a look. "Her letters," he added. "Do you not recall who this is?"

"Of course I do," I muttered crossly. "She's the Legion courier who I gave – oh!" my eyes widened in horror as I finally realised what I should have realised at once. I grasped Vilkas' arm, my hand shaking; my voice imploring. " _All_ of them?"

He nodded, grimacing as he closed the satchel. "Whoever killed her took everything in here, but," he motioned toward the rest of her briefly, "they left her weapons, her gold, and her wedding band..."

Dread sank like a heavy stone in my stomach and I asked in a small voice; "Who would kill a courier?"

"Usually nobody," Vilkas rose, glancing down to the woman's face. "But, Stormcloaks are in the habit of killing Imperials, are they not?"

I cursed, rising and turning away, my vision clouding as I looked to the horses waiting patiently for us on the edge of the pass. I crossed my arms and shook my head; as terrible as it was that the woman had been shot for whatever secrets she carried, _surely_ the Stormcloaks would not have been interested in my – well, what amounted to a _love note_ to Hadvar. I tried to recall what I had written and whether it contained anything sensitive, but I was too vexed and fatigued to remember much of it.

"Let's go," Vilkas stepped past me, heading for the road. He hesitated when I didn't follow him, and wordlessly waited for me.

Jaw clenched, I trailed after Vilkas as my mind reeled. It did not matter that they had taken my letter with all of the scout's other documents. Ulfric Stormcloak didn't care what I did; only that I stayed out of his machinations so they could perpetuate the false Dragonborn story to their own ends. And Hadvar – he would simply never receive my letter. I would have to write him another one the moment Vilkas and I got back to Whiterun, and send it by conventional means.

 _Hadvar_. I gasped; my chest clenched and I swallowed a lump threatening to choke me as I realised that my letter _would put him in danger._ They now had his name and knew that we were _familiar_ with one another, and they would use that to their advantage; possibly even as blackmail.

Vilkas hesitated again, to glance over his shoulder to me. "Don't worry about him. He's a soldier, surrounded by other soldiers," he told me carefully.

Though I had berated him about privacy earlier, I _was_ relieved by his words. I shook my head to try clear it, and hurried to his side. "I can only hope..." I managed, dashing away warm tears before they could fall, and then I could say no more. My throat clenched and I knew the next time I opened my mouth I would sob.

Vilkas sighed, then he stopped, and his arms encircled me in a warm hug. "There would be little point in going after him, for it would encourage _you_ to go after _them_. Remember what we know; that those orchestrating the false Dragonborn rumours _want_ you to stay out of their way," his hold on me tightened for emphasis.

I clenched my eyes closed, nodding and _trying_ to make myself believe it. It made sense. Hadvar would be fine.

"They will probably get a good laugh out of it, when they realise what they have, and that will be the end of it," he added kindly.

Again I nodded, opening my eyes to draw back, and thanked him. He was right. They would not provoke me, or risk me coming out into the open against what they had designed; not when I had the weight of Jarl Balgruuf and the Companions behind me.

The courier had been killed for the secrets she had carried, but my letter was not one of them.

Subdued, we proceeded down the mountain pass. It was midday when we reached the Nightgate inn. Vilkas took the horses on to the stable, and I went inside to secure the room and sleep for as long as I was granted.

Ten gold lighter, I crashed onto the bed in the same room we had been given during our previous visit, and nothing – neither anxiety, nor grief, could keep me from falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

–

I woke suddenly, and it seemed that only moments had passed since I had closed my eyes. I drew breath as I realised I was moving – no, being moved. There were hands on my arms; someone was shaking me.

"Quick, put this on," it was Vilkas. He released me, handing me my coat, and hurried away.

I blinked back the stars of the abrupt waking and watched Vilkas as my erratic, startled heartbeat thumped noisily in my ears. "What's happening?" I whispered, fumbling to put my arms through my coat sleeves. My movements were shaky as adrenaline washed through me.

Vilkas shifted one of the dressers near the closed door, barricading us in the room with barely a sound of wood scraping wood, then turned back, rushing to the place I had left my pack and boots.

"Hurry up," he insisted, lifting up my pack and throwing it over his shoulder, to rest effortlessly beside his own. "Your boots are here, and – where's your bow?" he glanced about hastily.

I rose, holding my head as stars swam in my vision, and felt Vilkas take my arms; leading me toward my boots.

After a rustle of cloth, he insisted; "Drink this," and palmed a small, cool bottle into my hand.

I didn't even stop to check what it was; I drank it all, covering my mouth to mute my cough as the horrible potion slid down my throat. _Stamina._

My vision cleared, and I sat to put on my boots. I watched him pacing back and forth between the barricaded door and the closed window of our room. He spotted my weapons belt, bow and quiver near a side table and grabbed for them, striding toward me with his armload extended.

He was like a caged creature; agitated and tense.

"I'm ready," I shot up, buckling the sword belt around me as Vilkas passed my quiver over my neck and raised one of my arms to loop it through for me, as though I was a small child who needed assistance in getting dressed.

This was getting ridiculous. I grabbed my bow and met his eyes sternly. "Tell me what's happening," I commanded, as steadily as I could.

Vilkas was breathing deeply; his eyes were set and slightly narrowed, and his brows were brooding, but beyond this I caught a flash of acute remorse. "We have to go, now. There's no time for talk," he grasped my arm and started towing me toward the window.

His look, and actions, took what little control I had mustered since I'd been shaken awake and twisted, wringing it from my form. I wavered as Vilkas released me to lift the window up, and placed my hands on the frame to keep from falling down as the cold night air rushed into the stuffy room.

Night had fallen again. Vilkas had left me to sleep away half a day – but now, it appeared that we were fleeing the inn under cover of darkness. Had he gotten into a fight with the innkeeper, or maybe the stable hand? Or was something more serious going on? Was the inn under attack? It certainly didn't sound like it; all both within and without seemed at peace. Had he had a nightmare? But no; Vilkas didn't sleep, so he couldn't dream.

"Go," Vilkas ordered, stepping away so I could climb out. "I am right behind you."

"Go where?" I shook my head. "I don't understand. Please, Vilkas. Tell me what is happening?" I begged. "Do I prepare for battle or run for cover? And from what – is there a dragon?"

Vilkas met my eyes again; the same sense of sorrow struck me anew, and I tightened my grip on the window ledge.

"Stormcloaks are here," he told me in a low, gruff voice; his eyes flickering beyond me toward the stables. "Eleven of them arrived a few minutes ago."

"So?" I hazarded, though the blood drain from my cheeks. His manner suggested that their coming had not been a coincidence – and in such numbers...

"You don't understand," he muttered in swift frustration, stepping forward and turning me around so I faced the open window again. His voice washed over my shoulder. "We'll have to leave the horses. I was listening to see what they wanted, but we cannot delay any longer. They're talking to the stable hand, right now. They're looking for _you_ ," he muttered darkly.

" _Me_?" I squeaked, glancing over my shoulder to him. He couldn't be serious!

"Go!" Vilkas urged again in a hiss. "It will not take them long to find out we are here. They have brought..." he faltered, and he turned his eyes down from mine swiftly. His regret was made plain as he sighed and admitted; "The woman they are claiming to be the Dragonborn is with them."


	31. The Dragonborn's Nemesis

_Chapter 31: The Dragonborn's Nemesis_

"Let me face her," I muttered, making to dive out of the window.

"Wait, and _think_ ," Vilkas pressed me in a hiss. He threw his arms around my shoulders, to keep me from crashing out of the building of my own accord and alerting the Stormcloaks to our whereabouts immediately. He leaned down behind me, whispering urgently, "You can't. They plan to take you with them to Windhelm. _Think_ , Celeste," he repeated, reaffirming his hold with a small shake, restraining me until I understood him, it seemed. "The Stormcloaks have their Dragonborn. Why would they want you?"

A silent heartbeat passed, where I made myself think, as Vilkas had asked. If they were here to take me to Windhelm, they were here to take me to _Ulfric_.

"To silence me," I acknowledged through my teeth in frustration. I turned my eyes to the stable yard, which I could barely make out through the darkness of the night and the fog that had accumulated over the lake, with its tendrils arching out and concealing half of the building. I glared at what I could see, though the stables looked as lifeless and insubstantial as the rest of our surrounds.

My blood boiled at how close I was to the woman pretending to be me. I shook my head to try throw off my fury, and reason their appearance out. "I don't understand. This goes against everything I knew of their plans. They shouldn't care that I'm here, or anywhere, as long as I am not in their way."

"Peace," Vilkas murmured, releasing me. "We have only ever assumed. We do not know enough, and there is no time left to question their motives. We must go!"

At the urgency behind _this_ prompting, I finally acceded and climbed out of the window. I dropped behind the shrubby garden that had been planted around the inn. I tried in vain to peer through the branches of the bushes, but could see, and hear, nothing unusual. There was only the still, black night and that ghostly fog.

Seconds later, Vilkas landed next to me with a faint crunch of boots on old snow, though he remained standing for a moment longer to close the window behind us. Then he was crouched down beside me, indicating that we were to go _underneath_ the building.

I glanced at the gap between the base of the inn and the dirt. The inn stood on stubbly stumps, lifted far enough from the perpetually frozen ground to create a buffer of air in an effort to save its patrons' feet from the cold ground, should it have been pressed against the boards and flagstones directly. There was a space wide enough to crawl under. Vilkas turned himself around, then began to back underneath, feet first.

I scurried to meet him; shifting myself underneath the Nightgate in the same way that Vilkas was, boots first. Vilkas' entire body, with the exception of his arms and top of his head, had already disappeared from view. I watched as he picked up tufts of stiff, dead grass and frozen leaf litter from the surrounds, and used them to cover the impressions our boots had made when we had landed, and the tracks that out hands and bodies had made when we had shuffled under the inn. Finally he scooped up a handful of fresh snow and scattered it over the place our boots had landed. At first glance – at second, even – all traces of our temporary occupation of the garden was removed.

But if they were searching for us – and, they _were_ – it would not take them long to realise we had barred the door and climbed out the window. I had to cling to the hope that they wouldn't immediately figure out which way we had gone.

"No. Remain here and question the boy further. He can't be as stupid as he's pretending to be," a commanding female voice cut through the still, cold night.

I froze. Booted footfalls on the earthen ground followed her order. They were far too frequent and out of time to determine their numbers, but Vilkas had said there were eleven of them in total.

"I will do this myself," the voice added, clearer this time, and I knew it to mean that _she_ was walking toward the inn. The one they were all calling _Dragonborn_.

My heart leapt as I recognised the voice. I had heard those tones for most of my life, but they had been the last I had expected to hear any time soon, let alone _here_. Her cadence was so similar to my own that it might have been my very voice, but for a distinctive edge that was too familiar for my ears, or heart, to ignore, or believe. _Impossible._

Vilkas' insistent hand rested over mine before I could further my dreaded conclusion, drawing me back from the edge of the inn's underbelly and away into the gloom. He squeezed it; encouragement, but also a swift reminder to stay on task.

There was not a force in all of Tamriel that could have dissuaded my curiosity; my _need_ to hear her speak again. I moved my hand away from his, and turned back, and waited. I watched, wide-eyed, as I spied flashes of blue fabric, tanned armour and fur-lined boots between the lowest branches of the too-dense shrubs.

I couldn't see her, but _she was right there_! We were steps away from one another! It took all of my willpower to keep from exposing us to catch a glimpse of the woman who I feared would look, not just similar to me, but _exactly_ like me.

"Secure the perimeter," her voice came again as a horrid sort of relief to my ears. The footsteps were sharper; more clipped, telling me that they'd reached the staircase leading up to the inn's front door.

"There will be no excuse to save you if Giselle evades us," she added.

 _If_ _ **Giselle**_ _..._?! _What_?!

"At once, ma'am," a Stormcloak replied in a thick, drawling accent. The rest of what he said was obscured by the uneven beat of boots as the soldier's dispersed. Vilkas' hand was on my back as I remained frozen on the cold dirt, and he closed his hand; gripped my coat insistently, as a reminder that we were by no means safe here.

His unspoken desperation spurred me on and I turned around on my hands and knees, crawling after him furiously, as though there was a fire on our tails.

In a sense, there was. My mind panicked and tried to dissuade me from believing what I had heard so that I might focus on our escape. The hard-packed layer of earth over what felt like the cold heart of Skyrim under my hands was my only distraction, but it was enough, for now.

When we reached the opposite side of the building, we both stopped, paused and observed, as we had fallen into the habit of doing at Driftshade. How removed I felt from _that_ supposed victory for the Companions at this moment!

My curiosity had ruined us – we had not had enough time to crawl away. No sooner had we paused than the sound of a pair of footfalls drifted to me. Two pairs of legs, with the blue of Stormcloak's colours fluttering about their knees, marched past our hiding place, inches from our faces.

They passed by us, hesitating only at the corner of the building, speaking for a moment in low murmurs that were unintelligible to me. Then they split up. One pair of legs disappeared from view, around the building, and the other turned and began to march back toward our position.

 _One_ , I thought, desperately. _Only one. We can manage this._

Vilkas evidently thought the same as I did, though no words passed between us. The Stormcloak's boot landed in front of my nose, and his weight shifted, to continue on. And he might have done so, had Vilkas not purposefully thumped the nearest support pillar with his closed fist, creating a muted 'thump'.

The Stormcloak paused. I froze, with no idea of what was expected of me. Vilkas' hand fell to my shoulder, urging me to crawl back under the inn.

I scuttled as fast and soundlessly as I could, as the Stormcloak leaned down. He peered into our hiding spot, his brows furrowed.

Vilkas let out a low, beastly growl that stilled both me, and the Stormcloak. I knew the sound to mean that Vilkas had allowed his werewolf some measure of control over him, and with a weighty sense of dread, I knew that if I could see his eyes, they would be gold.

The hesitation of the Stormcloak was his undoing; Vilkas used the time to lash his hand out and closed his fingers around the soldier's neck. The man tried to pull back – to fight, or to scream, but Vilkas was far stronger, and his expertly-placed hold prevented any noise from snaking out of the man's throat.

With a lurch, Vilkas tugged the man underneath the building. I averted my eyes as my shield-brother's arm twisted swiftly, but still heard the man's neck snap under the force.

 _Stormcloak_ , I reminded myself.

 _Yes_ , a cruel inner-voice added. _Who may have joined the war because he believed in you._

It would be impossible for me to continue on under such a notion, so I made myself fling it aside. It didn't matter how the man had come to serve under Ulfric's banner! All that mattered was that he _had_.

Vilkas was, as hastily as he could when crouched underneath a building, making shuffling movements that I took to mean he was relieving the soldier of some items from his person, but I couldn't see properly for myself, and our need for silence prevented me from questioning him. With all his senses heightened, I had to trust him to get us out of here; had to do what he asked, when he asked it, this time.

His hand landed on my arm; I tried to suppress a startle, but failed. He urged me toward him; I complied, groping against the ground for the next landing for my hand. Vilkas led me to the side of the building, and I could see a little again. The night was still dark, but our place under the inn was darker, so my sights had adjusted sufficiently to make the gloomy night a little brighter.

Vilkas passed me something; I glanced down. A large, wooden shield. The soldier's, I knew, even though I could hardly make out the white bear painted onto the blue backing. He passed more to me then; the soldier's arrows, my backpack, and then his. My eyes widened in horror as I understood why he would be passing our burdens to me; he was about to be rendered incapable of carrying anything.

His lips were on my ear. "Remember what you promised me in Jorrvaskr, sister," he whispered. "When I tell you to run, you _run_."

My eyes widened as I realised he was suggesting I go on alone. I tried to turn to him, to shake my head earnestly and meet his eyes, but he held me where I was, so he could continue.

"Do not stop running for anything, or anyone. I will find you. I swear on Kodlak's soul, I will find you," he finished fervently, then released me.

Now I could turn my head I did, and met his eyes with a start. They were a vivid, liquid amber. I had only ever seen them this bright when he had been in his wolf form before me in the underforge. I had promised him that I would not let him turn.

Vilkas turned his head away from me at once, glaring out into the night. There was nothing I could say or do, and certainly no way to sing and bring him back down, that might not draw the Stormcloaks to us also. There was _nothing_ I could do to prevent him from turning. He had worked out a means of escape for us, but I was horrified that it meant he would allow his despised beast to take hold of him. All I could do was loop the two backpacks over my shoulders, and wait for my signal.

He nodded, once, without looking at me. "Go," he hissed; his voice absorbed by the night.

I heard it and dreaded it, but I did as I had promised and followed his direction. I scuttled out from under the inn, and bolted across the snow, skidded down an embankment, and collapsed as I landed in a snowdrift.

The tears welled in my eyes as I drew myself up again, clutching onto the shield Vilkas had thrust into my hands, and bit my lip to suppress a sob threatening to escape as I agonised over whether I had just abandoned Vilkas to his death.

A furious, beastly roar broke through the quiet of the night. Had I not been biting my lip I would have screamed, and the sound broke through my remorse and forced me into a run.

I lumbered through the snow, knowing that Vilkas, transformed, was now leading the Stormcloaks away from me.

 _Don't shoot him,_ I begged as I hazarded a glance behind me, toward the inn. I could see nothing but blurred forms through the fog, though shouts and orders were coming thick and fast from all around it and I heard the screams of many fearful horses pierce the unfolding confusion.

The sound of hoofbeats tearing out into the night in all directions while the Stormcloaks shouted and Vilkas' beast form raged, from a great distance by the sounds, brought a hint of relief to the sorry state of my racing mind, though I didn't stop running, and wouldn't, I promised, no matter how my muscles ached or lungs burned. Whether Vilkas was aware of it or not – and I had to believe that he _was_ – by scattering the horses, he had brought us even more time. Their hoof prints would confuse the grounds further, and make it less likely that they would find the path I was weaving through the snowy pine trees and bushes.

Even with his wolf in control, Vilkas' strength of mind worked for us. The Stormcloaks, mounted, might have pursued me in a matter of minutes. The Stormcloaks on foot, without a clue as to the direction I had taken, might not.

 _And, Giselle_ , my mind forced the question upon me?

As I ascended a hillside, I made myself acknowledge what I had heard. The false Dragonborn, using my name for Ulfric's cause, was my sister. I couldn't fathom how or why she had returned to Skyrim from Wayrest, or how she could have come to align herself with the people who had murdered our parents and plunged Skyrim into war. But I _could not_ deny what I had heard.

I was almost grateful now that I hadn't seen her; I was certain that I wouldn't have been able to contain myself. As I ran, I imagined that I _had_ launched myself out of our hiding place, _FUS_ 'd her across the snowy expanse, then leapt onto her, screaming her betrayal of our family name; at her use of _my_ name for herself, while insisting to others, from what I had heard her say, that _I_ was _her._ She had referred to _me_ as Giselle, which, as I remembered her speaking it, told me one crucial sliver of information that might have otherwise had me wondering if the woman I had once shared a womb with also shared my ability to understand the speech spoken by the dragons.

She was _not_ Dragonborn; not in the sense that I was. Had she been able to shout, she would have no cause for using my name. If she was Dragonborn, her allies would not have pursued me at all; they would not need to, for she would have lacked no proof required to validate their claims.

She was a mage, and she was my sister, but she was _not_ the Dragonborn she claimed to be. What was she _doing_ here?

I crested the hill then descended through a rocky, ice-lined streamlet, before following the waterway for a time, as it grew ever-deeper. I fumed all the while, my thoughts leaping between injustice and rage, and berating myself that I had not realised that this could have been possible sooner.

Of _course_ the Stormcloaks believed that the Dragonborn was on their side. Whoever had come up with the scheme had found the only woman in Tamriel that looked _exactly_ like me to play my part.

But it didn't make _any_ sense. Giselle had always been wilful and contrary, but at her heart she was strong, and loyal, and true. She was a Passero and I could not believe it possible for her to purposefully stoop so low out of spite. Something was wrong.

A spark of dismay flared within me, posing that perhaps Giselle had been brainwashed or blackmailed into joining them. Perhaps she was being coerced. Perhaps something had occurred, something crazy, that had indebted Giselle to the Stormcloaks.

 _Or perhaps she has sided with the Stormcloaks and you simply don't understand what is motivating her. All you know is what you heard._

I sloshed on through the water, watching my footing as I chewed futilely over Giselle's involvement in the war. When the water became too deep for me to continue without drenching my legs and filling my boots, which had protected me from the icy flow thus far, I climbed out and continued on through the desolate, snowy wilds.

After several more inclines, I came across a road; hard packed earth, and devoid of snow. Hesitating at the edge of it to catch my breath, I looked both ways, several times, before hastily crossing it and disappearing into the tree line on the other side.

I could not take the roads, or goat tracks, or any path that a person might wander. That would lead to swift, certain capture, and...

 _And what_ , I taunted myself? _Giselle wouldn't_ _ **kill**_ _you. If you had gone to her, you could have questioned her, found out what she was doing. Helped her, if she was being kept under duress._

Still I persisted with the slim chance that Giselle wasn't part of this farce of her own choosing.

 _No,_ I countered, clinging to the escape as the right course of action. _If you had gone to her, she would have taken you straight to Ulfric. And the last time you stood before him, he_ _ **did**_ _order that you be tortured and disposed of._

I shuddered at the memory of the bear-like Jarl towering over me, gripping my chin to make me look at him, before he had told Ralof who I was, and given his order.

I unwittingly glared across the expanse as I ran. If I had been determined to kill Ulfric Stormcloak before, I was _pledged_ to destroy him now.

As I jogged through the snow, the darkness gradually turned grey. I had to assume dawn was nigh, but I couldn't tell for certain; the skies had closed in and the stars had been shielded by thick, low clouds.

It began to snow.

It was only a light dusting, drifting lazily down from the closed-in heavens, but the first tiny speck landing on my nose served as a bit of a wake-up. It forced me out of my internal agony and made me pay attention to where I was, and where I might go. The snow would cover my tracks, but the fall could thicken, and it was tantamount to suicide to run through a storm. I had no idea where I was, which direction I was running in, or if there was a settlement anywhere near by. I _had_ to find shelter before the light dusting worsened, and then remain there and wait for Vilkas.

 _If he lives._

I shook my head at myself, my resolve hardening, refusing to entertain the notion. Vilkas _was_ alive and he _would_ find me.

Making for the dark, shadowed cliffs that I had been skirting around for some time, I began to search for crevices large enough for me to shelter in. I didn't bother searching for a cave; they were the homes of bears and sabre cats, and I was too drawn out to attempt to fight anything.

It didn't take me long to find a gap between the dark protrusions, large enough to keep me in and the snow out, and overhung by a smaller boulder wedged above. I ducked inside, huddling into a crouch as I lay down the Stormcloak shield I was still carrying, and then sat on it. I tucked my legs up underneath my chin, watching the snow fall gradually thicken, spiralling as the winds caught and clumped together the tiny snowflakes.

I didn't feel cold, but then, I had been exerting myself for some hours now. Since I had ceased running in a blind panic from the Nightgate, my breaths had become laboured, but the real pain was in my legs, muting all others. I fumbled through mine and Vilkas' backpacks for food and potions, and was successful in both pursuits. After taking my fill and washing down a healing potion with water, my muscles began to unlock and anything I had damaged unwittingly began to re-knit. I closed my eyes with relief, feeling the warmth of the potion coursing through me.

 _Thud._

The rocks around me shook and I opened my eyes. The snow had stopped and I could see patches of bright, blue sky. I startled, realising that I had fallen asleep. Of all the idiotic things to do in a snow storm! I could have frozen to death, or been found by a hungry pack of wolves, or anything!

A noise had woken me, and I stopped berating myself long enough to focus on what it might have been. An animal? A Stormcloak? Vilkas?

I rose stiffly and grappled for my bow, drawing it off my shoulder, and fumbling for an arrow. With shaking hands – from the cold, I assured myself – I placed it, then leaned my back against the rocky cliff, took a steadying breath, turned and aimed.

The snow around my hideaway was unmarked. I glanced around swiftly, noticing that the snow was just as pristine, just as untouched, everywhere I beheld.

 _Whoosh._

A shadow loomed over me, and I bit down a scream, propelling myself backwards into the opening I had taken shelter in, my bow still raised and aimed at nothing. At the same time, I ducked, and looked up, but could see nothing moving through the gap.

Just as I realised what it had been, with a thudding _CRASH_ , the ground rolled under my feet. Flecks of dirt and small stones rained down on me from the roof of my tiny cavern.

There was a screech –

" _Daar dur gein fent stinaan fod diivonaan!"_

– and a responding roar; deep and throaty, and further away.

I recognised one with a jolt of terror, and my mind filled the blanks for the other, unasked: _This cursed one shall be freed when swallowed!_

"Vilkas!" I realised in horror that he _had_ tracked me – and he was out there – with a _dragon_!

I arched around the rock that concealed me. I saw the dragon at once; it was impossible to miss, several lengths of its own body away from me. It was smaller than the ones I had encountered in Helgen and at the Western watchtower. Its scales were brown and its wings were folded close to its body as it faced its chosen adversary.

Before it, loping through the snow, was the huge, black furred werewolf that I knew to be Vilkas.

The dragon leaned up on the claws half way along its wings and opened its maw. A warm glow started to pool within.

I aimed and fired at the creature's head. The moment my arrow loosed, I retreated, pressing my back against the rock. My eyes slammed closed as the dragon screeched indignantly.

" _Mal nin!_ "

Evidently, my arrow had met its mark; _Little sting!_

With a snarling roar, and a responding, wordless screech from the dragon, I knew that my arrow had bought Vilkas the time he had needed to reach the dragon.

Again I turned, grabbing another arrow and taking aim as I watched the dragon throw its head around as it tried to toss the werewolf from its neck.

I aimed lower, so as not to risk shooting my shield-brother, and fired at the dragon's flank. As it keened and tried to turn to see who had shot it, the werewolf slashed its claws along the dragon's neck and bit down with its jaws, essentially locking himself into place.

The dragon didn't know which way to turn. The few times that it tried to fly off or breathe fire, one of us would already be attacking it, and it would stop. While the werewolf struck, I would hide and ready my next arrow, and when the dragon was distracted by Vilkas, I would fire.

The dragon, only perhaps three times larger than Vilkas' werewolf, didn't stand a chance, I realised dully. The thought brought me both a sense of victory, and an opposing, unaccountable sense of dread, as I fired another arrow into its thick hide.

It must have been young, in relative dragon years, I thought, as I stepped out of my hiding place to fire again at the struggling creature. My heart lurched in dismay as the beast reared up in pain, then shuddered in its death throes.

The werewolf remained on its back until the dragon's head had crashed down onto the ground, which had been rendered clear of snow by the struggle. Then he launched himself off the dragon, and bounded toward me, his mouth curled into a snarl.

I had readied another arrow and swiftly took aim at him, startled by the fury I saw in the werewolf's gaze.

"Vilkas, stop!" I commanded, stepping backwards unconsciously, knowing that no matter how I threatened or how he ran, I would never fire my arrow at him. "Shield-brother! It's over!"

The werewolf hesitated, slowing and tilting his head, as though he was confused. Beside him, the fallen dragon began to shimmer and sparkle. Still uncertain, Vilkas' werewolf caught sight of the brightness, and snapped his jaws, uttering a warning growl to the felled dragon.

 _Oh_. _Oh no. It's going to happen again, isn't it?_

I stepped out from my hiding place and toward the clearing the pair had made, lowering my bow and squaring my stance as a false wind, created by the dragon's own soul I assumed, whipped around us. The white-gold brightness coalesced from the creature and surged toward me.

Dimly, I was aware of Vilkas' wolf turning his head back to me. The thought of his beast having taken a firm enough hold of him that he didn't remember why he was coming for me fled my mind as the dragon's soul struck my chest. As with the last dragon, the brightness surrounded and blinded me to all else. A rushing sound filled my ears, thrumming tunelessly like a drum as my mind stretched to make room for this new inhabitant. The whiteness faded as the flickering brightness coiled around my soul; at the same time trapping, and protecting it.

My vision was clearing, and the werewolf was before me still, though behind its fur I could make out the faint outline of a man with a bright, erratically-thumping heart. I reached out toward him, surprised to see my pale hands trembling. Taken aback, I blinked, and when my eyes opened, the vision had faded, and I came back to my own senses. My boots were on solid ground; my arms were aching, dully, from the strain of firing so many arrows one after the other.

The werewolf stood there, regarding me with its narrowed, golden eyes, but not moving, as though its uncertainty of what it had just seen had turned it into a statue.

Casting him a sympathetic smile, I took a step toward him. My hand was still half-raised, and I let it continue now, holding my palm out to him in offering.

"Come on," I beckoned encouragingly as the werewolf's eyes flickered briefly from me, to my hand, then to me again. "You can come back, now, Vilkas."

He leaned forward to sniff my palm, snuffling hot air over my hand as he breathed in my scent. His breath tickled me; I huffed an easy, comfortable laugh at the sensation. The werewolf met my eyes at the sound, startled and standing tall as the hungry look in his eyes transformed into one of pleading.

I knew what he wanted; what he needed, and with my heart and mind made luminous and bold from the dragon's soul, I sang Vilkas back to himself.

The transformation was gradual; slower than the previous time, but it did happen. I had to assume that it had taken longer this time because Vilkas had been transformed for a much longer period of time. The faintest of shudders rippled through me as I wondered how long he could maintain this form before he would lose himself, as the creatures in Driftshade refuge had.

But it slipped away at once, unable to find purchase against the dragon's soul, and Vilkas was soon himself again, crashing down to his hands and knees beside the dried bones of the dragon that he and I had slain. His armour was gone; again, his skin was exposed to the elements.

Hastily, I threw off my quiver and chucked off my coat, then knelt down, bundling it in my hands and placing the offering in his line of sight. "Here."

Vilkas tensed as he raised his head to regard the material. He stared at it for a good few seconds, as though he wasn't certain of what it was. His now-silvery eyes glanced up to me eventually, but he still said nothing. They flickered over me, still with that sense of disconnection, which faded and turned into realisation, and recognition, as I maintained it.

He moved suddenly, grasping onto my offered coat and covering himself with it as he sat back onto his knees. "Thank you," he muttered.

I smiled and let out a relieved laugh. "I have the rest of our things, back by the mountainside," I stood tall, turning back toward my hideaway.

I heard him rise, and then a shuffle of cloth. I didn't turn back, giving him what privacy I could, and made directly for the place I had left our packs, kneeling on the shield I had rested upon to rifle through Vilkas', hoping that he had brought a spare tunic or something with him.

The pad of Vilkas' bare feet came to me, and he crouched down beside me; my coat tied by the arms around his front, as it had been when he had transformed back into himself in the underforge.

"Let me," he murmured gruffly, reaching for his pack. I let him take it, shuffling back to give him room to move his arms.

His expression was grim as he rifled through his bag, and he looked so utterly withdrawn into himself that I hesitated before speaking to him.

But I couldn't hold my tongue for long.

"What happened to the Stormcloaks?" I had to ask.

He didn't look at me, and half shrugged as he extracted a pair of trousers from his bag. "Most of them fled. A few pursued me, including your sister," he rose and turned away from me, to untie my coat and shuffle into his trousers. "But I gave them the slip."

I averted my eyes, my blood surging madly at his pronouncement. "So, you know," I muttered.

Vilkas said nothing in reply, and I closed my eyes with regret, trying to ease the dismay that had risen to clench my heart.

When the rustling sound ceased, Vilkas spoke again, closer to me.

"How long have you known?" he asked me in a rumble.

I opened my eyes and shook my head. "I had no _idea_ , until last night. When did you find out?" I all but accused.

Vilkas' expression was too calm, too steady, for what had occurred. He handed my coat back to me, and didn't answer. "It's cold. You'd better put this back on."

I crossed my brows at him, but did as he suggested at once, as much as I wanted to berate the shirtless man with bare feet in front of me for lecturing _me_ about the cold.

He sighed as he ducked back down to withdraw a thin-looking tunic from his pack.

I adjusted my quiver over my coat again, and repeated my question. "How did you know that the false Dragonborn was my sister?"

He was donning the tunic, but this time, he didn't hesitate. "You smell the same."

"We _what_?"

His head popped out of the neck hole, and he shook his shaggy mane of black hair out of his eyes as he pulled the body of the tunic down over his torso. "Do you want me to lie to you?" he fixed me with a look. "Your hearts," he confirmed, nodding toward me. "They smell the same. It happens that way, with twins."

Inwardly, I shrank from this. I had assumed that he had heard them speaking of her – _me_ – in the stables. "That's horrible," I muttered. "I'm nothing _like_ her."

"In mind, perhaps," Vilkas stood again, shouldering his pack, and, I noticed, mine. He was still too calm – too steady, given what we were discussing. It made me want to, for some reason, rage at him. He shrugged when I shot him a dark look.

"In soul, you might be strangers," he arched an eyebrow at me, no doubt referring to what he had witnessed, in his werewolf form, when the dragon had expired. "But, your hearts are the same."

My mouth twitched and I narrowed my eyes at him. "Giselle is a traitor to the Empire, and a traitor to the name Passero. She and I do _not_ share a heart."

"That is not what I meant," Vilkas cast me a level look and shook his head. "Come on. We need to go, before any more dragons sniff us out."

I humphed at his dismissive manner, and trudged after him. "What happens to your armour, when you transform?" I asked grumpily in an attempt to find something that didn't revolve around myself and my family to talk about. "Won't anybody recognise it, when they find it, and figure out what you are?" I added.

Vilkas didn't turn back, but I saw him shake his head. "It won't be found," given the subject matter, I was surprised he answered me at all. "At least, not in a form that resembles anything but bent pieces of steel."

He didn't seem worried about destroying it, or about the cold snow that he was padding through, bare-foot. He actually didn't seem that upset about letting his wolf take hold of him, either, which I found odd. His calm nonchalance; the inappropriate clothing – it was somehow more disconcerting than Vilkas in his werewolf form. I shuddered, crossing my arms over my chest against the chill, and turned my eyes down to the snow.

Of course, his senses picked up my withdrawal, and he turned over his shoulders to smirk at me. "Easy, shield-sister," he rumbled. "I can smell the dragon on you. Mind it doesn't unleash itself on me, hmm? We are fighting the same fight."

That was all he said, and I watched his back with furrowed brows as he continued leading the way. With a small start, I realised that this ease within him was not out of deliberately forgetting what we had endured, but _because_ of it. It was _empathy_. He was doing as he would wish done unto him, in my place; giving me, and my soul, some space to recover.

"I'm not turning into a _dragon_ ," I muttered, to myself really, as I suppressed another shudder. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Before Vilkas could reply to this I asked him about the horses, and if there was any hope in retrieving them.

He told me that there was not; we were too far from the Nightgate to bother retracing our steps, but that my run had taken me further west than he had thought it would, placing us on the border of the Pale and Hjaalmarch, so if we continued west a little further, we would meet one of the main roads that led back to Whiterun.

A flush crept along my cheeks as Vilkas told me this; I had thought I had been running north, but it seemed I had been running west, instead. I hadn't been able to tell, due to the fog, the lack of stars, the distractions on my mind...

I sighed to find myself back at Giselle, and wondered if perhaps I should write a letter to her, once I was back in Whiterun. I dismissed the idea immediately; any letter I wrote her would fall into the hands of my true enemy. Had Ulfric ordered that she come for me, to convince me to join them? Or, was it as Vilkas had intimated; that he wanted me retrieved so that he could imprison me, if not silence me?

The note I had written must have prompted them to come for some reason, I determined. They would never have known that I was in the Pale, had their agents not killed the Imperial scout, and taken my letter. Furthermore, they would surely not have bothered acting against me, had something in my letter not disturbed them.

I tried desperately to think back over what I had written, but I had done it so hastily, unable at the time to dwell over my words. I could only recall the most basic information. I'd thanked Hadvar for his warning of the rumours, advised him that the General hadn't written to me yet, and told him how much I missed him, for it had been only hours since I had realised that what I felt for him _was_ love, and I had wished to express it. That had been _all_ _,_ I was sure of it.

While Vilkas picked out our path across the thinning snow, I mused over this, and eventually shook my head. No, there was nothing in the letter that would have made them come after me. And, there was nothing in it to make them go after Hadvar. It would serve no purpose.

Still, my heart raced. _You have been wrong in interpreting the Stormcloak's logic in the past,_ I reminded myself sharply. _If they want you, perhaps they_ _ **will**_ _go after Hadvar, to try and secure your cooperation._

I heard Vilkas sigh, and when I looked up to him I saw that he had stopped, and turned back, and was waiting for me. He had a somewhat exasperated, somewhat sympathetic look on his face, and I took this to mean that he had sensed what, or who I was thinking about, again.

I stopped before him, my arms still crossed. "I can't help it," I told him quietly.

"I know," he sighed again, stepping up beside me and drawing me under his arm.

He started us walking again. I was a little surprised to feel the warmth still emanating from Vilkas' form, given his state of dress. The man was a furnace!

We walked in silence for a short moment, then; "Did you hear why they had come for me?" I asked him.

He shook his head, his eyes on the horizon. "They arrived, and questioned the stable boy about a woman who had passed through a day or two ago, who looked like the Dragonborn that they had with them. They mentioned that the woman they were searching for was wanted urgently in Windhelm. They spoke nothing of their motives."

I frowned, realising that they had not expected to find me at the Nightgate inn. It seemed as though they had been intent on following my trail, and it had only been due to our backtracking from Driftshade that they had happened upon us.

But there would be no such confusion about the Imperial Legion camp in the Pale. My heart wrung in remorse as I thought again of Hadvar's position. Vilkas' arm around me tightened.

True, Hadvar was a soldier in an encampment of soldiers, but if there was the _slightest_ chance that Ulfric would give a retrieval order against him next, be it to secure, or spite me, I _had_ to do something.

"I have to warn him," I shuddered.

"Write to him, the moment we are returned," Vilkas supplied at once. "Write to the General of the Legion army, too. I am sure they will find the whereabouts of your sister...interesting."

Dimly, I nodded, as internally I began phrasing a letter to General Tullius. He _would_ need to know about Giselle's defection, though I was almost certain it would encourage him to write to me _insisting_ that my joining the Imperial Legion was now not only a matter of saving Skyrim, but my family's honour-

I gasped, rooted to the spot and stilling both Vilkas and I.

"What is it?" Vilkas fired.

I shook my head, glancing to him and motioned for us to go on. "It's just – what if the General already knows?" I posed to him.

"I suppose anything is possible," Vilkas acknowledged. "But, what is it that makes you think he might?"

"My family's money," the weight of realisation fell on my shoulders, and I cursed. "When I arrived in Whiterun," I explained hastily, then changed my mind. "No. Wait, this doesn't make sense. The General had frozen our family's finances while Giselle was in Wayrest. It must be for some other reason..." I mulled over the mystery, biting my lip again as I tried to make sense of _that_ uncertainty.

It was no use. I would write to the General, and perhaps, if he replied, he would give me some hint of the matter, if not outright explain why he had done it. It did not truly matter to me now in a pecuniary sense, as I had accumulated a modest living during my time with the Companions.

We walked in silence a little way further. Vilkas released me so that we could more easily climb down a cluster of boulders surrounded by nodes of hard-packed snow, and onto an expanse of flatter ground. It seemed as though the snowstorm I had been caught in had not reached this place; it looked as though it had not snowed here for many days. The golden grasses were stiff and rippled in time with the crisp breeze wafting over them.

"We should be home by tomorrow morning," Vilkas told me, falling into a jog on the easier ground. "And, as soon as we are," he cast me a swift, concerned glance. "You should report to the Jarl. He will want to hear of what has happened. And, Jarl Balgruuf will be able to relay messages, faster than any other couriers. He will have a way to contact the General, and might even be able to get your warning to Hadvar for you, or at least to his commanding officer."

I nodded, appreciating Vilkas' reasoning. "I will."

"After that," Vilkas sighed, in a way that made me glance to him swiftly. His voice carried a strain that told me he was about to say something I didn't want to hear.

He felt the change in me and gave me an unimpressed look. "Once your duty is done to your Legion sweetheart, I need you to come back to, and stay at Jorrvaskr, for a few days."

I had expected something worse, and frowned. "Why?"

He turned away; busy sighting our path. "Because, I need you to manage the accounts, while Farkas, Aela and I are away."

Realising what he was leaving unsaid, I shook my head. "After all we went through at Driftshade, you expect me to stay behind and idle at Jorrvaskr, while the Circle frees Kodlak's soul?" I guessed.

"This isn't about you, Celeste," Vilkas replied sternly, swiftly enough that I took it to mean he had anticipated my response. "You told me, only yesterday, that the Companions are your family. We need to take care of one another," he insisted.

"By shutting me away from harm –?"

"Not about you, remember?" Vilkas cut me off smoothly.

I bit back my retort and told myself to think before I replied. I breathed deeply a few times, to ease the rising indignation. There was always more to Vilkas' requests than met the eye.

"All right," I breathed, more calmly. "You are my Harbinger, now. I shall heed your request and remain behind, but I would appreciate a reason for it."

He shot me a furrowed glance. "I'm not your Harbinger."

"You will be," I replied swiftly.

He hesitated in the process of forming his response, then blinked, turning his eyes back to the path before us. He said nothing more, and the idea came to me that he had truly never considered that the position of Harbinger would fall upon his shoulders, now that Kodlak was gone.

I quickened my step, to walk beside him, and asked again, "Will you explain why I must stay behind?"

Vilkas blinked swiftly, as though I'd shirked him out of a deep thought, and nodded. "Because you are the only person who I believe is equipped to look after the Companions in our absence."

I felt a brief flush of pride rising, but it was hindered by perplexed confusion. "They're grown men and women, not children who need taking care of."

He gave me a sideways look, raising his eyebrows. "You do enjoy putting words in my mouth, don't you?" he teased, then shook his head. "Without strong leadership, the Companions cannot endure. We have taken too many blows, of late, for the entire Circle to be scattered."

I waited, feeling that there was more, and then caught up to what he had said. "I'm not Circle," I reminded him hesitantly.

After a weighty pause, he slowed and stopped, then faced me. "But, you will be," the smallest trace of a grin broke out across his features.

The expression was infectious; I found myself returning it despite my surprise. "You mean to make me a member of the Circle?" I confirmed.

He nodded, placing his hand on my shoulder warmly. "Many see the Companions as a rabble of barely-organised mercenaries. Even some of the Companions believe this," he raised his eyebrows in consideration.

I huffed a laugh; _I_ had believed it, before I had known them.

Vilkas' silvery gaze met mine, shining with admiration. "But you see into our hearts, and fight for your place not for a meagre title, or the fame it might bring you, but because you _want_ to be counted as one of our family. You care about us," Vilkas' hand fell back to his side, and he gave me another sideways glance. "Not many do."

I was truly touched by his admission, and nodded my thanks to him. Yes, I cared about them, and I had been shown now, time and time again, that my shield-siblings cared about me.

He smiled, a little sadly, and turned away, then recommenced our journey. I stepped beside him, meeting him step for step.

"So, it's settled, then?" he asked, a little gruffer than before. "You will become a member of the Circle, and mind the kids while I'm away?"

I laughed at his phrasing, but nodded. "I would be honoured to, _Harbinger_."

"I'm _not_ your Harbinger."

"But you will be."

* * *

 _A/n: Of course, the false Dragonborn is Giselle, which many of you guessed...several chapters ago. I was trying so hard to be subtle, but you're all too clever! But, there is more to this revelation than there seems to be. I'm hopeful that nobody will guess what's going on (cue everybody guessing immediately...)._  
 _Thanks as ever for the reviews :) they're helping me to keep motivated at the moment. There's a lot of work looming that I'll likely have to take a month's break for (sorry), but it hasn't hit yet, so I'll get as much out as I can before that time comes._


	32. To Be Seen

_Chapter 32: To Be Seen_

Our return to Whiterun heralded one expected, sorrowful event, and another that I had not anticipated, which if I had been thinking about anything other than the Companions for the past month, perhaps I might have.

When Vilkas and I had trudged through the gates of Whiterun about an hour before dawn, Farkas had met us there. He had sensed our approach, and had come to meet us.

It was a remarkably sweet gesture from the enormous man, who embraced us both in turn in bone-crushing hugs. While he held me, I could feel that his arms and shoulders were tensed, and his voice seemed strained. Was it his grief, or was the responsibility of maintaining the Companions while we had been gone taking its toll?

Aela hadn't left him to endure alone, I was grateful to discover. We entered Jorrvaskr, and there she was; rising to her feet when we stepped into the mead hall. She seemed composed, and more subdued than I had ever seen her. Her disdain towards me was offered only in the form of the occasional blank stare, as though she was stuck wondering what manner of creature I was, or perhaps why I had not been told to go to bed so they could talk. Even her words carried less of a snarl.

The first order of business was, of course, Kodlak and Ria's funerals. Aela and Farkas had, during our time away, prepared for both, but they had been awaiting our return before holding them, and seemed to be hesitant to do anything without Vilkas' approval. I took this to mean that not only had they already accepted him as Harbinger of the Companions, but in whatever hierarchy werewolves adhered to, Vilkas had become the new alpha.

" _Everybody_ needs closure," Aela told us, addressing Vilkas. "The funerals will provide it."

"Not for Kodlak," Vilkas reminded her steadily, almost accusingly.

"No," she agreed, and her eyes narrowed. Her tone was still remarkably even when she added, "But we shall find him his peace once Eorland has repaired Wuuthrad. We can do no more to carry out his wishes and appease his spirit until that time comes."

Evidently, the deaths, and what had brought them about, had cooled Aela's trademark fury for now.

After determining that the funerals would take place at sun-up, and arranging who would do what, the Circle dispersed. Aela retreated to kick the whelps out of their beds and send them to summon people from all over Whiterun to attend the ceremony. Farkas left to retrieve a priestess from the Temple of Kynareth. Vilkas was to make for the Skyforge, to deliver the fragments of Wuuthrad to Eorlund Grey-Mane, and to ensure that everything with regards to the bodies was arranged adequately, as the funerals were to be held at the forge itself.

"What am I to do?" I asked him, wondering if, or when, he would tell the others that he meant to make me a member of the Circle. During our walk home, I had been worried about Aela's reaction, but after meeting her that morning, I was no longer so afraid.

He half-turned to me, paused in the act of leaving. "You have your duty, shield-sister. Report to the Jarl, as planned. Once you have told him what we discovered, bring him back to the Skyforge. He will want to pay his final respects, to Kodlak at least. The pair were..." he trailed off, and shook his head. "I don't need to tell you."

"Kodlak was well loved," I acknowledged quietly.

With a grimace, Vilkas left. I watch him go through a fog. Now that I had stopped to rest for a moment in the lulling warmth of the mead hall, my exertions had started to take their toll.

I yearned for sleep, and was eager to return to Breezehome to let Lydia know that we had returned, but I did as Vilkas bade. I would not risk sleeping through Kodlak and Ria's funerals.

There was no time to make myself more presentable, so I trudged up to Dragonsreach in my armour, coat and scarf; all of which bore the marks and stains of battle and travel. I tried my best to untangle my hair with my hands, while I walked, but it was in desperate need of a wash. I opted for pulling it back from my face into a loose, low ponytail.

The Jarl was asleep, given that dawn had not yet broken, and the only person in the Dragonreach throne room was his brother Hrongar, lounging at one of the tables, nursing a tankard of something with a faraway glower on his rugged face, until he noticed my approach.

He refused to wake the Jarl until I told him about Kodlak Whitemane's funeral.

"All right. Sit there," he pointed to one of the chairs at the long table around the hearth, "and _wait_ , Thane Passero," he all but ordered, casting me a suspicious glare.

My brows furrowed as I slowly took the seat indicated, and watched Hrongar's departing form. I'd never spoken directly to the Jarl's brother before, so I had to wonder what I had done to deserve such a look, and such attitude from him. Dimly, I remembered that Lydia had referred to the man as 'ice-for-brains' once, so perhaps it was simply that I was aligned with Lydia that had offended him.

After a minute of wondering in this vein, a servant shuffled out of the kitchens, capturing my attention, bearing a plate of food and a goblet of mead. She placed both down in front of me.

I hadn't expected to be fed so I thanked the girl, before sending back the mead and asking for water instead. The girl bobbed her head respectfully, departing with the goblet at once. I stared down at the morning meal she had brought, and my stomach gurgled as I glanced over several wedges of buttered bread and a shallow bowl of thick porridge, dusted with dark, dried fruits.

There was no need for ceremony; I was on my own. I ate, with fatigue well and truly set in, and thought of nothing but the food for a time.

"Thane Passero," the Jarl calling my name brought me out of my stupor, and I lifted my head to see him standing before the table, his eyes searching and his brother looming behind him. "You have returned," he noted.

At once, I lowered my eyes, and my spoon. "My Jarl," I swallowed, standing so I could dip into a quick bow. "I have, barely an hour ago."

"Yes. Very well," he intoned dismissively. "My brother tells me that I am to accompany you to Kodlak Whitemane's funeral," he got straight to the point.

I raised my head and nodded. "Preparations are being finalised as we speak."

"Then we should not delay," he turned to leave.

"My Jarl," I added in a rush. Jarl Balgruuf turned back, his brows furrowed. I met his icy-blue gaze, wondering suddenly if he was cross with me? There was a coldness to his manner that I could not account for, otherwise.

"A moment, I beg of you," I continued. Was it a good idea to ask favours of him, if I had fallen out of favour?

 _What you have to tell him is bigger than any grudge,_ I reminded myself. _The Empire must know of Giselle._

The thought that a warning from me might save Hadvar, should the Stormcloaks go after him, spurred me on, despite Jarl Balgruuf's tense silence.

"My shield-brother and I were attacked, at an inn called the Nightgate, two nights past," I began, making sure that I didn't elaborate unnecessarily and displease the Jarl further.

"By whom?" he turned back to face me now, and with a flick of his wrist, his brother pulled out a chair for him.

"Stormcloaks," I supplied simply, watchful of the Jarl while he sat opposite me. He leaned his elbows on the table, and crossed his hands, and then nodded for me to take my own seat.

"And, who else?" he prompted.

I sat, and nodded gratefully that he had sensed as much. "They were being led by the woman who the Stormcloaks are saying is me."

The Jarl grimaced. "When you stole away from Whiterun, regardless of your cause, you threatened to expose their little game. I could have told you that you were making a target of yourself, had you thought to pay your respects before you departed," he murmured sharply.

"Time was of the essence," I assured him. He _was_ angry with me; my heart thumped heavily in defeat. "I would not have left without explaining, had I not just endured an attack on Jorrvaskr, and seen my mentor and friends being murdered before my eyes," my voice quivered, and I felt my throat clench thick with repressed emotion. There was no _time_ for this.

"I see. Well, you are alive, and back within my walls," the Jarl sighed. "You need not fear the Stormcloaks, or the false Dragonborn, coming for you here, while you are under my protection. Ulfric would not risk insulting me so."

"That's not why I'm delaying us, my Jarl," I shook my head, cursing inwardly for leading him down the wrong path. "The woman – the false Dragonborn," I corrected, and swallowed nervously, wishing suddenly that I didn't have to speak the words aloud. "She is my sister."

The Jarl's expression flattened, and he stared at me for a few long, hard seconds.

"One of Samuel Passero's daughters has joined the _Stormcloaks_?" he asked finally, in a hiss.

I shrugged, feeling helpless with what little information I _did_ have to offer. "It looks like it."

"Did you speak to her?" he snapped.

I shook my head. "We were escaping. I heard her voice, while Vilkas and I were hidden-"

"Then, you cannot be certain it _was_ her," he cut in. "Alteration magic can be used to trick the mind into believing all manner of fancies."

Again, I shook my head. "I'm sorry, my Jarl, but I recognise my own twin. Vilkas confirmed that-" I hesitated, realising what I had been about to say; that Giselle's heart smelled the same as mine; that it was the way with twins. I met the Jarl's eyes during the pause. "He confirmed that her likeness to me was unquestionable."

The Jarl sat back, his stare persisting, only now it carried a trace of bewilderment. "What would she gain by setting the Empire against your family?"

I had no answer for him, and frowned down at my food. My vision blurred as tears welled in my eyes.

After a weighty pause, the Jarl spoke up again, more reserved this time, and in a more sympathetic tone. "Why are you telling me this, Celeste?" he asked. "Do you believe she is their prisoner?"

I lifted my head and wiped my eyes hurriedly. "I cannot be certain. She appeared to be giving the orders, not taking them. But, whether or not Giselle has sided with the Stormcloaks of her own free will, my reason for telling you is, on one hand, in the interests of the Empire, and on the other...more personal," I made myself meet his eyes once more.

He nodded for me to go on, but his eyes became more guarded.

"We happened upon the Stormcloak's true secret by chance," I told him, resolving to be confident. He would hear me out. "They only knew I had left Whiterun because one of their agents killed an Imperial courier, and stole her letters. One of those letters was mine," I felt the flush rising in my cheeks at this small admission, "which I had written to thank my friend, who warned us about the initial rumour," I reminded him. I had told him of Hadvar's letter, at the time when I had explained, but he had not read it for himself.

"So, Ulfric saw this as an opportunity to silence you, and make his rumour infallible," the Jarl surmised.

I shook my head again. "My sister referred to _me_ as Giselle, to the other soldiers – they weren't there to kill me. They wanted to retrieve me, and take me to Windhelm."

"To what end?"

"I wish I knew, my Jarl," I replied swiftly, and pushed on still. "But, we escaped, thanks to my shield-brother, and with facts the Stormcloaks would not wish to be known about their false Dragonborn."

"You wish _me_ to make it known that your sister is with the Stormcloaks?" the Jarl looked wary. "Celeste, such information will create an indelible mark on your family. Think of your father's name, and your own future."

I _was_ thinking about father, and of how the news of Giselle's defection would have broken his heart, had he been alive. "Not to the general public, if you please. I believe, as you do, that it would not serve any of us well. But, I was hoping to employ a reliable messenger in your service to relay this information to General Tullius in Solitude, and to my friend, Hadvar, who is garrisoned with the Legion in the Pale."

The Jarl's mouth twitched. "Such an act would seal my Hold's allegiance, were it to become known," he told me sternly. "If I am to protect my people and maintain neutrality, I must not openly support either side."

I bit my bottom lip lightly, turning my eyes away. Given my appointment, and the Jarl's penchant for being both reasonable and logical, I had been certain that when the time came to choose sides, he would stay with the Empire. He was clearly surprised by and interested in what I had told him, but of _course_ he would not risk openly opposing Ulfric. I had to wonder why I had ever entertained the notion myself with what I knew of Jarl Balgruuf's determined stance.

"I will write to both," I implored, fixing him with a pleading expression and changing my tactic a little. "The letters will be sealed by me," I added. "But due to the nature of what I must tell them, I cannot risk the information being lost, or stolen again.

"I ask not for your to choose the Empire," I continued in a quieter tone, "but merely to assist me with the security of this information, for the sake of my father's name, and mine."

The Jarl regarded me for a moment, then looked to his brother, who had taken it upon himself to lounge lazily in a chair beside Balgruuf.

"Hrongar, what say you of this scheme of Miss Passero's?" he drawled, almost lazily.

The brother flicked me a glance. "I say your Thane forgets who she serves," he muttered.

"I certainly do not," I clipped, raising my eyebrow at him. "My loyalty to my Jarl assured me that this secret would be safe with him."

"But you would have withheld it, if you'd not needed his help?" Hrongar fired at once, sitting forward. "Would you have even made the Jarl aware you had returned to Whiterun, had you not wanted something of him, _Dragonborn_?"

Taken aback, I rose, wondering why the Jarl was allowing his brother to speak for him, or to me in this unruly, insulting manner. Hrongar rose as well, in challenge, his chair legs scraping against the flagstones noisily; his eyes hard, and never leaving me.

For a moment, I was lost for words, and glanced to the Jarl for help. He was sitting back and observing the unfolding conflict with a thoughtful expression.

"My Jarl," I addressed him, deciding to have nothing more to do with his brother. "Will you help me?"

Balgruuf's eyes flickered to me, though the rest of his body remained motionless.

"If I do this thing for you," the Jarl drawled eventually, shifting in his seat to sit straighter. "Then you must do something for me."

"Anything," I replied quickly, maintaining his gaze.

The Jarl nodded, and in the corner of my vision, I noticed Hrongar take his seat. "Against my better judgement, since you have become my Thane I have left you to your own devices, while you obtain the skills you insist you must learn before commencing your journey to High Hrothgar."

"I have learned much from my shield-siblings in that time, my Jarl," I supplied; my neck prickling at what he might be leading up to. _Against his better judgement?_

He nodded, but held up his hand for me to let him finish. "If I allow you use of my messenger this once to send your letters, wherever you mean to send them," he waved his hand as though he didn't want to know any more in that regard, "then you, in return, must _be my Thane_."

I felt embarrassed by his wording, and stammered, "Tell me how I might serve you better, my Jarl, and it shall be done."

"Good," he shifted in his seat, and stood, placing his hands on the table, so that he now looked down upon me. "Sit."

At once, I sat; I honestly hadn't realised that I had still been standing.

Jarl Balgruuf's eyes were hard, but he spoke very evenly – and almost too calmly. "From this day, until the day that you leave for the Greybeards, you will be here at my table by no later than the hour of six, to eat with my friends and family and those within my service," he raised his eyebrows at me to make his point. "You will not leave the feasting table of a night until I have given you leave, and when I have done so, you will retire to your rooms within Dragonsreach," he spoke in the manner of a father berating, and grounding, his wayward daughter.

I shrank inwardly from the comparison as soon as I'd made it, and felt myself nodding dully at his terms, though it made me feel ill to agree to it. A fire within my belly surged and expanded, warning me; begging me to steal away before I was caged. But I remained, outwardly composed and accepting his reprove. In part, I felt that I deserved this, and should have seen it coming; I _had_ neglected my duty to him, but it had been out of my desire to help the Companions.

But still, I'd had no _idea_ that the Jarl would be so offended by my travelling to Driftshade with Vilkas; his reaction made me wonder if he believed I had taken advantage of the indulgences he had granted me _._

He hadn't finished, and my heart sank as he continued. "Your duties to the Companions extend no further than the walls of Whiterun, unless you gain explicit approval from me," he went on. "If you have no pressing duties to your shield-siblings, you will attend on me in court, between the hours of eight and five. Your housecarl in turn will attend on you, wherever you go, as is fitting for a lady of virtue and Thane of my Hold."

Again I nodded, and this time murmured, "As you wish, my Jarl."

"Good," he repeated, nodding for emphasis. "Your armour arrived, while you were gone," he added gruffly. "It has been delivered to your rooms, and it will please me to see you wear it tonight."

He sat, sighing to himself, as the same servant from earlier arrived with a plate of food and tankard of something for the Jarl.

His eyes roved over the meal as he dismissed her with a wave, and took up his drink. "Now, I will eat, and you will write your letters. Hrongar, summon Erthos."

"Yes, my Jarl," I murmured.

"At once, my Jarl," the brother departed, sounding smugly satisfied.

The Jarl ate, and writing materials appeared, brought by a different servant. I wanted to melt into the flagstones out of shame as the woman laid the fine note paper, quills, ink, wax and a tall, flickering candle on a small, but elaborate silver stand before me, pointedly not meeting my eyes as she worked. The Jarl's brother and the servants had all witnessed the Jarl berating me. Word would spread of the scolding, and swiftly.

As soon as the servant had left I set one of the sheets of paper out before me and inked the quill, attempting to calm myself with the notion that any personal embarrassment I suffered was a small price to pay, if Hadvar _was_ in danger and my letters could save him.

Hastily, I wrote first to the General, advising him of Giselle's position. I added what I had planned on telling him regarding my _own_ position; that as Thane of Whiterun I was obliged to and aligned with Jarl Balgruuf, and, that as Dragonborn, I could not deviate from what was required of me by Akatosh to join the war. I conceded that once my Dragonborn duties were at an end and I was at liberty to choose a side, it would, if he had ever had any doubt, be with the Empire, as was my father's allegiance, and my father's father's, and so on, before me.

I signed the letter officially and left it open to dry, placing it to one side.

Next, I wrote to Hadvar. As my last letter, where I had all but declared my love for him, had been stolen, I was more hesitant of openly writing in an affectionate manner, if by some chance the letter should be read by eyes other than his. I resolved to write simply and to the point, though it pained me to think of him reading this letter, and wondering what I was leaving unsaid.

 _I regret to have a warning of my own to reply to yours. I have seen the false Dragonborn who is with the Stormcloaks, and she is my twin sister, who I believed was in Wayrest studying at the Mage's college. She came to retrieve me, while I was on a mission for the Companions, but we managed to escape. She is using my name, and referring to me as Giselle._

 _She knows about us, Hadvar. If she, and Ulfric, want me, they may come for you. Take all precautions you are able to in case the Stormcloaks decide to attack your garrison._

 _I am so sorry. I will write again as soon as I am at liberty to._

I left it at that, and shoved the letter aside as tears grew thick in my eyes, obscuring my vision. _Divines, keep him safe._ Roughly, frustrated by everything behind me and everything before, I yanked the Passero seal out from under my armour and lifted the chain over my head. The General's letter had dried; I sealed it with a blob of the black wax, and then stared down at the little seal on the end of the large ring while I gave Hadvar's letter a moment longer to dry. The tiny dove, in flight with a twig of olive branch in its beak, flickered at me as the smooth ebony it had been carved from caught the light of the candle I had used to melt the wax.

Once I had sealed Hadvar's letter and addressed both, I set the writing materials aside and looked up from my work. The Jarl had finished his breakfast, and was sitting back, taking sips from his tankard. When he caught my eyes on him, he stood.

"You are finished?" he asked, in the obliging tone I remembered him having the last time I had come to him. He flicked his hand, indicating for somebody to come forward.

I nodded. "They are sealed and addressed. Where might I find your..."

Before I finished my sentence, a figure stepped up beside me. I turned to him; a tall, thin Bosmer wearing bland, generic leather armour.

"I am ready, my Jarl."

"Good," Jarl Balgruuf nodded toward me. "Miss Passero, give your instructions to Erthos."

Standing swiftly, I passed the mer both letters. "Make haste to the Pale, and then to Solitude," I bade, clearing my throat so that my orders wouldn't waver. "You are to hand these letters to nobody but the men they are addressed to. Please wait while they are read, and ask to provide an acknowledgement of receipt, which you are to return to me."

"As you wish, Thane Passero," Erthos tucked the letters into a hidden pouch on his cuirass, then righted his armour and turned back to Balgruuf. "Will there be anything else, my Jarl?"

"That is all."

The Bosmer bowed and departed at once.

With a flick of his head, the Jarl indicated that we were to leave as well, to our next task; the funeral. Dread pooled thick within my chest, and I wished suddenly that I had remained out in the wilds of Skyrim with Vilkas, unaware of all that had been waiting for us in Whiterun.

When we reached the end of the table, the Jarl motioned for me to join him, and held his arm out for me to take, as though I was a lady of the court.

 _You are_ , I reminded myself morosely. _The Jarl has decreed that you are to be one of his._

I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow, and let him lead me toward the main doors; my heart heavy and the bright, frantic fluttering in my stomach raging at my weak compliance.

That I was confined to Whiterun should not have bothered me so; it meant that I could delay my journey to the Greybeards until I had appeased the Jarl and truly possessed the skills to venture out on my own.

Sighing as we walked in silence, I resolved that it was merely that the Jarl was disappointed in me that made me feel so uneasy. But, my letters were on their way, and I would work to regain Jarl Balgruuf's favour, once the funeral was over. I had to look to the future.

"You are a good girl, Celeste," the Jarl answered my sigh, it seemed, and patted my hand gently.

"I aim to please you, my Jarl," I managed, subdued.

"Do not think bad of me," he encouraged, sighing for himself then.

I replied, automatically, "I only think so of myself, to learn that my actions have displeased you. I have only done what I believed to be right at the time."

"You do not lack in fortitude," Jarl Balgruuf shook his head, and turned to look down at me. "But you are young, and in need of guidance. Had you displeased me, Celeste, I would have dismissed you from my service the moment I sighted you at my table."

I suppressed a shudder and turned my eyes to meet his, but wasn't certain of what was required of me by way of response. I merely stared up at him.

He smiled, and I saw more kindness in his expression than had been there since I had returned. "It seems all of Skyrim is seeking you," he told me, somewhat candidly. "Your sister seeks you for the Stormcloak's machinations. The Greybeards seek you for theirs. The Companions won your allegiance, and kept you close," he squeezed my hand under his. "Is it wrong that I should desire my Thane, and the daughter of one of my trusted allies, to gift me with some of her precious time?"

I shook my head, but still said nothing. He _did_ feel responsible for me because of my father.

"Then, let us be friends," he turned away to look toward the great doors of Dragonsreach. "The greatness in you shines, drawing others toward you like moths to a flame," he added, in a lower tone. "As your Jarl, and as a father myself, I will keep the moths from overwhelming, and taking advantage of you."

 _By keeping you out of the light,_ a small, sullen inner voice finished for me.

–

The sun rose over the walls of Whiterun. The funerals brought more pain, but I felt dismayed enough that more sorrow only served to blank my mind and the result was that I felt nothing but guilt, and shed no tears. I watched, standing beside the Jarl, with Lydia solemn and silent on my other side, feeling removed from events. I listened as my shield-siblings spoke their words. They were beautiful, but sounded ceremonial, so I made the assumption that they were the words spoken at every Companion's funeral.

Kodlak and Ria's bodies had been placed on seperate pyres, on the Skyforge itself, and after the words had been spoken and the congregation fallen silent, all in attendance remained to watch as their forms were consumed and freed by the flames. Their ashes would fortify the Skyforge, as was the tradition amongst the Companions.

Once it was over and people began murmuring and shifting around the forge in the act of leaving, the Jarl approached Vilkas. He clasped my shield-brother's shoulder and said something, which I didn't hear, and Vilkas responded with a murmur of his own, and a bow of his head.

He had endured the funerals with all the stoic blankness expected of him by the townsfolk. In his eyes, glazed and staring, I could see Vilkas' torment, even as he spoke with Jarl Balgruuf. If I could have sensed his heart, as he could mine, I knew that I would have found it howling.

I remained where I was, and cast Lydia a glance. Could we go? I was hesitant to leave the Jarl's sight until I had been given permission, having no idea how his new restraints on my freedoms would effect the every day coming and goings of my life. Lydia cast me a sideways glance in return, and, imperceptible to those not looking for a sign, shook her head.

We would wait, then. I turned back to observe the Jarl and Vilkas' discourse. The Skyforge gradually emptied of people. When Vilkas, the Jarl, myself, Lydia, Hrongar and Irileth, and Eorlund Grey-Mane were all that remained, my shield-brother and Jarl Balgruuf turned toward me. The Jarl motioned for me to approach.

I tried to suppress my flush, wishing that he would not treat me like a child before those who I had striven to be treated as an equal by. I hastened toward them, bowing my head and then standing tall, meeting Vilkas' inquiring eyes with a look imploring him to wait until I could explain before judging me.

"Vilkas informs me that your field training was lacking only in the experience earned through years," the Jarl spoke, friendlier than before.

Vilkas agreed with a nod. "You have the skill to be a fine warrior, someday, Thane Passero," he said in an obliging tone that I knew he was using for the Jarl's benefit. I thanked him for his support with my eyes.

"Yes," the Jarl flicked me a sideways look. "However, he has agreed with me, in light of the attempted attack on your life, that it would serve your interests best if you remained in Whiterun for the time being, and undertook no more contracts abroad."

"Thank you, my Jarl," I intoned respectfully, without hesitation.

"Good," the Jarl put his hand on my shoulder, in farewell. "I look forward to this evening."

"As do I," I glanced up to him, trying a small, what I hoped was grateful smile.

He returned it dimly, then cast Lydia a significant nod, and departed. Irileth and Hrongar shadowed his every move.

Once they had disappeared from view, I let out a rush of air that I hadn't realised I had been holding.

As though my breath had been her cue, Lydia ducked down to my level and gave me a fierce hug. "I'm so sorry, little one," she whispered as she clutched me to her. "I couldn't believe how angry he was when I told him that you had gone with Vilkas. I tried-"

"No, I'm sorry," I held her close, cutting off her unnecessary explanations. "I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble. It was unfair of me to ask you to speak for me. It won't be so bad in Dragonsreach, and Lucia can move into our rooms with us-"

"Yes," Lydia nodded, pulling back – her eyes shimmering. "It is all arranged. She's a little excited about it, to tell the truth, as much as we will miss Breezehome for the now."

I offered her a hope-filled smile. "I am glad that she is excited. Some good has come of this, then."

"You are not so caged as you believe, shield-sister," Vilkas stepped into our conversation, and forward to join us. I turned my eyes on him, grateful for whatever he had said to the Jarl, for it had seemed to improve his mood. I had been worried that the Jarl had been about to berate Vilkas for taking me out of Whiterun, when he had first approached him.

Vilkas seemed fine in body, but his eyes were so sad that I wanted to give him a hug and sing for him at once.

"What did he tell you?" I asked, refraining from my impulses.

Vilkas turned his eyes toward the Skyforge; watching the flickering remains of our dearly departed as they joined with the ashes of the Companions before them. "Much the same as he told you, I would wager. But, I could tell," he said carefully, "that he did not want to be mad at you. Give him your attention, for a few days, perhaps a week or two, and you will appease his pride. Then," Vilkas shrugged, to the flames, "the chains binding you will loosen."

I shuddered at the talk of _chains_ ; they made the hot panic simmering within me surge forward, insisting to me that I was a prisoner. Stubbornly, I pushed the feeling down, reminding myself sternly that I was _not_. I could wake tomorrow and announce that I was leaving for High Hrothgar, and the Jarl would let me go without any attempts to prevent me.

Shuddering at the thought, I turned to regard the pyres in the early morning sunlight next to my shield-brother; eyes following the sparks as they rose high into the pale sky. "What about my training? And, the accounts – who will manage the Companions, when you and the others...set out?" I asked quietly. Lydia stood by my side, giving an appearance of disinterest in what we were saying, but I still regretted that I was unable to speak freely with Vilkas, for the first time in a while. "And what about my performances? I won't be able to play for you if my presence is required at Dragonsreach every night."

"It can't be helped," he sighed and turned back to me. I turned to face him sadly, knowing full well how the Jarl's demands would effect them. He rested a hand on my shoulder, in what I took as a sign of encouragement, and smiled down at me fondly. "I will arrange everything here. For now, take some time to recover. Retire to your rooms in Dragonsreach, and make sure that the Jarl sees you going to them. Report to Jorrvaskr tomorrow morning, and we will talk more of your new schedule."

His unfailing support made my suppressed emotions surface, and this time I gave in to my urge; stepping forward and throwing my arms around him. "Thank you," I whispered, not trusting my voice to utter anything more profound, or any louder.

Vilkas chuckled, patting my back gingerly; for Lydia's benefit, I felt. "This is not good bye," he said, when I pulled back. "I still want you to become a member of the Circle. This is just a good night. And tomorrow...we'll adapt to this change."

"I wish things didn't have to change," I murmured a little crossly as I retreated to Lydia's side.

As we three fell into step to leave the Skyforge, he murmured. "Soon, everything will change, for all of us. Best we get used to the idea now."

I was uncertain if he was eluding to the journey that he and the Circle would take to free Kodlak, and their, souls, or my pending journey to High Hrothgar, which might take me from Whiterun, and my loved ones, forever.

I had run from the responsibility for over a month, now, and I ran from it still. I was becoming a better warrior, in my own right, but I had sworn to remain with the Companions, until they were freed of their curse.

And, now that the cure was days away from being realised? Was my time in Whiterun drawing to an end? I baulked at the prospect.

I could not leave Whiterun now; not while I was out of favour with the Jarl. Vilkas would be finding his feet as Harbinger, when it was announced, and would need everybody he could trust to support him. And, I couldn't leave before I had heard from the General and Hadvar, and knew that Hadvar was safe.

 _You are making excuses._

Of _course_ I was making excuses. When the Greybeards had first called for me, I had dreaded going to them out of a sense of fear for my own well being. Now, I dreaded going to them because I felt I would be losing the families I had discovered in Whiterun. I didn't want to hasten my own exile, if that's what the Greybeards were going to push upon me while they taught me whatever it was that they needed to pass onto the Dragonborn.

I remembered what it was to be alone, and I didn't want to go back to that place again any time soon.

Lydia and I took our leave of Vilkas and made directly for Dragonsreach. The Jarl was on his throne, speaking with Proventus. I toyed with the idea of approaching him and asking for permission to retire, and decided against it immediately; the Jarl did not like to have his time wasted, and it would not do me any favours to appear to be mocking his conditions.

It was enough that he and the others present in the throne room saw Lydia and I move to the side and ascend the stairs that led to the living quarters.

From the war room, Lydia led the way, as I couldn't remember how to reach the rooms I had chosen. I tried to pay attention to the turns she took this time, but I was too tired to make an adequate mental map of the place. Lydia must have felt my withdrawal, for she did not try to draw me out with conversation.

Finally we reached the last door in the hallway of rooms that Dagny had brought us to that day. The room was just as I had remembered it; clean and dust-free, all polished maple and pale fabrics, but still emitting that sense of disuse I had felt during my first visit. I almost felt bad about shedding my filthy boots, coat and scarf in the room's pristine cleanliness.

Lydia deposited me on one of the chairs, then stood on another to light a few of the lanterns hanging overhead. After that, she started arranging a bath; dragging a large copper tub out of a utility cupboard. She left to arrange for water to be brought.

I stared around the room, and felt the edges on my worn emotions smooth out. The peacefulness of the room eased many of the weights from my mind; most of which were the product of events that had passed.

 _Look forward. This is a good change,_ I schooled myself, breathing deeply. _I cannot stay with the Companions forever._

I tried to look to the future. How long it might take for Eorlund to repair Wuuthrad? How many more sleepless nights might Vilkas and Farkas have to endure? The thought made me smile. Soon, they would be able to rest properly, and dream again.

My thoughts drifted to Dragonsreach, as I was to now divide my time between here and Jorrvaskr, it seemed. Both court and dinners would be simple enough affairs to attend; I would only need to exert myself by way of conversation. It was clear that it would be enough for me to be seen. I would be honest, and pleasant, and give opinions when they were wanted. I could _do_ this; I _could_ win the Jarl's favour back, before I departed for High Hrothgar.

I gazed around the room as I waited, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw a _person_ standing in the corner of the room. I leapt to my feet, and realised at the same moment that it was merely a clothing dummy.

 _My armour_ , I confirmed, remembering that the Jarl had told me that it had arrived. I padded toward it, crossing my brows as I drew nearer. It didn't _look_ like any kind of armour I'd ever seen. It was...

My face fell, as I reached out to caress the leather breastplate, underneath which hung swathes of burgundy... _silk_.

It was ceremonial armour. For all intents and purposes, it was a dress. I sighed, wondering why the Jarl had gone to the trouble to have _this_ commissioned for me? I had hoped that he would provide armour that I could wear on my journey to the Greybeards, wear into battle! But this _thing_ on the clothing dummy? It was fit for only one purpose. _To be seen_.

The dress was beautiful. There was no doubts about its quality. The straight, deep red folds flowed down over whole of the dummy, and the full length arms hung limply either side of the torso. The 'armour' portion consisted of a warm brown leather, sewn into a shaped, sleeveless breastplate and embossed with the sigil of Whiterun at its centre; the horse's head. Tiny silver links of what looked like chainmail at first glance fastened the leather together at both sides, draping between eyelets while not tightened. Underneath the chest piece, a tasset hung in two parts, made of the same leather, and segmented to allow for ease of movement.

I took one of the silken arms of the dress between my fingers and played with the cool material. I was going to _freeze_ in the draughty halls of Dragonsreach wearing _silk_. I let the material slip from my hand as I caught sight of more leather, beside the dummy, and crouched down to inspect the items. Boots – of the same leather, with more of the silvery chain hung in eyelets to close and tighten them along the side of the shin. Arm bracers, short and of the same leather again, segmented and ornamented with links of silver chain.

I pressed my fingers together and slipped the bracer over my hand, settling it about my wrist and joining the chain links to close it. I eyed it critically, holding my hand out at arms length. It felt like a regular arm bracer, even if it did look like a piece of jewellery. _Could_ I use this armour, I began to wonder, glancing back up to the finely-worked leather on the frame? Sure, the dress was impossible, but the rest? It was prettier than any armour I had ever seen, but _was_ it functional?

 _Ask Lydia,_ I resolved, unlinking the silver clasps and removing the bracer. The little links along its length chinked musically when I replaced it and stood with a groan.

All of my muscles ached. Every one of them. And I wanted to sleep, more than I wanted a bath at that moment.

Lydia returned, as though she had sensed my notion of sleeping before I had cleaned myself up, and she brought with her several servants carrying pails of steaming water. I watched them silently, feeling somewhat guilty that I had all but resolved to give in to my weariness while they had toiled to bring the water all the way to me. Once they had departed, Lydia locked the door behind them, strode toward me, and started to unfasten my armour.

"What are you doing?" I murmured, taking her hands in mine and peering at her with furrowed brows.

She raised an eyebrow and I let her hands go. "Attending on you, as is my duty," she replied dryly.

"I can undress myself, Lydia," I insisted, feeling more cross than I should have for having to explain this to her. "I'm not a child," I added, in a rather ironically childish tone.

Lydia sighed as she took a step back from me. "As you wish."

"Will you stop that?" I asked at once.

She frowned. "Stop what?"

"Stop..." I searched for a word, shaking my head and busying my hands by untying my armour. "Stop acting as though you are my servant," I settled quietly.

"I _am_ your housecarl," she reminded me, moving away from me to test the water temperature. Satisfied, she stepped to the recess she had drawn the bath out of earlier, assembled a tray of soaps, and slung a plush, ivory-coloured towel over her shoulder.

I drew the Legion cuirass over my head, and winced as my muscles protested at the loss of pressure. Had Lydia been berated by the Jarl, in my absence? It seemed likely, and for that I was truly sorry.

I let the armour fall to the ground, uncaring of the mud that flaked off it and dirtied the floor.

"I don't care about any of that," I spoke to Lydia in a more quiet, placated tone, unbuckling the kilt next and letting it fall down to join the cuirass. "When we're not standing in front of the Jarl, can't you just...be you?" I turned to watch her. "If you would, I promise that I will be...me," I fumbled over my words. I _was_ tired.

Lydia placed the tray she had arranged next to the tub on the seat of a chair. She hesitated, and from the side I could see that she was smiling.

"Ever your father's daughter, little one," she rose and faced me; the small smile still in place.

I was relieved by her easy tone, and padded to the side of the bath. "Thank you," I spoke gratefully, quietly.

"If you aren't wanting me to bathe you, I'll return home and pack a few things," Lydia tilted her head side-ways toward the door. "Lucia will be with Mila, but if I see her on the way, I'll bring her back."

I nodded swiftly, drawing down my leggings and throwing them across to join my discarded armour. "Could you bring my lute, when you return?"

"Of course. Anything else? Remembering that, you know, you're not under arrest or anything and can come with me to carry your _own_ burdens," she raised an eyebrow at me, smirking knowingly. "My Thane," she added regally, with a deep bow.

I laughed openly at her, shook my head, and thought for a moment. She was joking; I was dead on my feet, and could not go anywhere but bath and bed, right now. I didn't want to burden Lydia by asking her to retrieve unimportant things. But, there were a few small, important items that I didn't want to be without for long. When I was recovered, I could return myself and collect my larger things, like books and clothes.

I didn't have much that mattered, but what I did have was in Breezehome. I drew my under tunic over my head, and made a swift decision.

"In the chest, at the end of my bed," I told her. "That's where I keep Hadvar's letters," I didn't meet her eyes; I tested the water with my fingertip. It was deliciously warm.

"I see," Lydia mused.

"And, on the bookshelf. There are three necklaces. They...are special to me," I stammered as I threw off my underthings. With only the Passero seal remaining around my neck and resting between my breasts, I eased myself into the tub. I gasped as the warm water blushed my skin at once.

"All right," Lydia replied, nodding her head cordially. "Lute, letters, necklaces," she ticked off mentally, then made for the door. "Enjoy your bath, little one," she said to me as she opened the door, and turned back to me. "I'm glad that you're home, even if it does not feel like home, yet," she told me quietly. "I shan't be gone long."

"Take your time," I yawned, reaching for one of the bars of soap. "Once I am done here, I plan to sleep until dinner time."

She laughingly promised me that I wouldn't be disturbed, and left.

Again, I was alone in the new room, but my thoughts didn't wander too far into the past or future, this time. I focussed on cleaning the days of travel and battle from my body and hair, and each time I began to idle over the Companions, or my sister, or the Jarl, the thoughts would scatter, like a startled school of fish.

It was only the uncertainty I felt over Hadvar's safety that managed to disturb my rising contentment.

 _Divines keep him safe,_ I prayed again to any of the Gods who might have been listening. _I will rise to meet whatever being Dragonborn requires of me, but, your servant begs you – keep him safe for me._


	33. The Hard Facts of War

_Chapter 33: The Hard Facts of War_

I had never been particularly pious with regards to my worship of the Eight.

It was not a question of belief, but as with most others merely one of discipline. Mother had encouraged Giselle and I to visit the Temple of the Divines once a week during our childhoods, but Giselle had always been restless, climbing and leaping over pews and jumping around the shrines, and I had been too absorbed by my own musings to pay attention to whatever the priest or priestess had been droning on about. She had given up on trying to take us, and I had come to learn when I grew a little older that it had been out of embarrassment.

As I had matured, I had visited the Temple whenever I had felt the need to be inspired by the solemnity of the main hall. There was something singularly surreal about its dynamic, perhaps in combination with the Temple's architecture, that never failed to quiet my mind. But, I had simply sat in the mostly empty rows of pews, and allowed my mind to drift as the time had ticked by and others wanting to pay their respects had come and gone. I had never been the type to join them, and pray in public. I felt there was something false about a faith that needed to be performed before others, for in my limited experience, and in my heart, I felt as though prayers were for the eyes and ears of the Eight.

However I knew that I was not alone in calling upon the Divines in times of need. If men and mer could commit all manner of atrocities and be granted clemency by prostrating themselves on a shrine when the guilt grew too much to bear, then surely I could call upon the Divines to watch over Hadvar for me.

Surely, the Divines would hear and grant me this, given that Akatosh had chosen me to be an instrument of His design.

With my prayers whispered in the recesses of my mind, I focussed my efforts on growing accustomed to my new routine. For three days, my presence at Jorrvaskr had been sparse. Vilkas had been training me of a morning, but dismissing me at noon, suggesting, rather than ordering that I attend court for the afternoon, so I could grow used to proceedings there. From my place in the throne room, secured until the hour of five, there could then be no dispute over the time of my arrival at the Jarl's dinner table.

And the Jarl seemed noticeably appeased by my efforts to be his Thane. He smiled more, and the smiles reached his ice-blue eyes whenever he drew his subject's attentions to me and bade that I lend my experience to whatever matter was at hand, in a manner that suggested he was teaching me something of what it was to rule. But rather than try to read too much into his intentions, I merely did as I had promised to do; I spoke when I was called upon, and was truthful in my replies. Whether my own views aligned with the Jarl's or not, I owed him, and his people, my honesty.

Jarl Balgruuf's dinners began at the hour of six, and carried on with feasting, drinking and conversation until all hours, but in a more refined manner than that which I had grown accustomed to at Jorrvaskr. On the first night I had attended dinner, the Jarl had not dismissed me until one in the morning; on the following night, it had been after eleven.

And now I was at my third dinner in Dragonsreach, making an effort to converse with Jon Battle-Born, who had led me to my place tonight. He was proving to be a most distracted and silent partner, which I had not expected of the young man.

He mentioned, briefly and somewhat reservedly, that he wanted to be a bard. At once, his father leant across the table to him, and with a stern look at his boy said, "I'm sure the Bard's college is the last thing our Lady Dragonborn wants to talk about, lad."

"I don't mind," I smoothly replied, for I saw his father's intervention for what it was immediately; a reminder of his _own_ disapproval of Jon's desires. "The college was as good as my home, for three years past," I turned back to Jon, who was at least two years my junior, I guessed, and offered him a sympathetic smile. "You should consider applying next semester. The Deans will push your talent to its limits, and then demand even more of you. It is exhausting," I admitted, with a small laugh in an effort to remain light-hearted, and draw him back to me. "But, I wouldn't be who I am today, had I not gone."

The father retreated, but so did Jon. He seemed impervious to both my words and my smiles; falling into some kind of internal sullenness brought on by his father's barely-concealed reprimand.

With an internal sigh of my own and now no dinner partner to converse with, I mused over the seemingly endless cycle of children and parents conflicting expectations. I turned back to my meal, and ate in silence.

At the arrival of the third course, a distraction arrived. The footfalls of approach drew most of the Jarl's dinner guests' gazes to the hall leading up to the hearth and throne level.

When I realised that it was Erthos, returned, I darted to my feet and rushed to meet him. Lydia was a step behind me, supporting my every move, as she had been for the past three days.

The Bosmer's eyes fell to mine, and a sympathetic hesitance to his demeanour sent a spike of pain straight to my chest. I was halted at once by that look; the fires of the heat from the hearth scorching the right side of my body, but I felt only a cold dread consume me.

Erthos' eyes flickered toward the Jarl, as though waiting to be given leave to come any further. Lydia stepped up beside me, taking my arm firmly.

"Let's not assume the worst," she schooled quietly, prompting me to go meet the messenger, so that he would not have to come to me.

She led me forward when I didn't move, then we stopped before Erthos at the stairs that had brought him up to throne room level.

"Lady Dragonborn," Erthos murmured, bowing his head shallowly as he reached into his armour.

My breath hitched as he withdrew two letters, and handed them to me.

One letter bore the seal of the Imperial army. The other was the letter I had written to Hadvar, unopened.

Whatever the rhyme or reason for it, I understood at that moment that I was wrong in my assumptions of the Divines and their regard for me. Had I been consumed by conceit, believing myself to be high and mighty enough that the Divines would hear me? Did the Divines consider me at all?

My eyes widened as I glanced up to Erthos for an explanation. "Why wasn't this letter delivered?" my voice wavered. Lydia's grip on my arm tightened, but I couldn't tell if it was out of shock from what she was seeing, or in some attempt to warn me from reacting rashly.

Erthos cast another glance over our audience; the Jarl's trusted subjects and family. I didn't turn back to see who was watching us; at that moment, the only people in my world were Lydia and Erthos.

"Please," I whispered, drawing the messenger's gaze back.

The tall, thin Bosmer shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lady Dragonborn. The Legion garrison in the Pale was deserted."

" _Deserted_?"

"Not a living soul remained," he added, carefully enough that from within my anxiety I still managed to pick up on it.

"What do you mean?" I asked swiftly. "You mean that they have shifted camp? Moved on to another region?" I begged.

Erthos sighed, and looked down. "No, Lady Dragonborn. I don't mean that at all."

"Oh, Gods," I choked, covering my mouth to quiet a sob. _He can't mean – this is impossible._

"Speak plainly," Lydia took control at that point.

"Plainly put," the messenger sounded uncertain. "The garrison was attacked. The bodies of both Legion and Stormcloak soldiers littered the surrounds, and it must have only been a day or so since it happened, owing to the shallow snow on the deceased-"

I turned, burying my head in Lydia's shoulder and clenching my eyes closed to stop the tears as I willed Erthos to stop speaking. My housecarl held me tightly to her, and asked him, "Were there signs of survivors? Footprints, anything? Did anybody escape?"

"Can't rightfully say, ma'am," his reply bore the tone of a shrug. "Snow had fallen, which might have covered any tracks leading to and from the base. But it weren't enough to wholly cover the bodies."

I shuddered and wavered against Lydia as guilt thudded through me. _It's all my fault._

"All right," Lydia spoke calmly – too calmly. "Did you see anybody there who bore a resemblance to our Lady Dragonborn?"

"I can't say that I did, but then, it weren't my job to search the bodies," he replied.

"When you were in Solitude, did the General, or anyone else in the Legion, tell you anything about the attack?" Lydia asked immediately.

"Weren't my place to ask, if I'm honest."

"Send him away," I whispered desperately to my housecarl, squeezing my eyes shut more firmly and shuddering against her. " _Please,_ Lydia..." I trailed off, unable to say any more as I bit my lip to keep from bursting into tears.

 _It's all my fault. If I hadn't written that letter at the Nightgate...and_ _ **exposed**_ _him..._

"Thank you, for your services," Lydia offered plainly and dismissively. "If you recall anything else about the attack on the Imperial camp, don't hesitate to bring your information directly to me. You will be well paid."

"All in a day's duty, ma'am," Erthos said, and though I couldn't see him, I heard his armour creak and shuffle as he bowed.

The next thing I knew I was being shifted; led away by Lydia. I saw and heard little. I'm sure she said something to the Jarl, and the Jarl agreed to whatever she had asked, and then we moved again.

I clutched the two letters in my grasp; a sense of unreality taking hold. _Erthos was mistaken. Hadvar will be fine. He can't be..._

I couldn't even voice the thought in my own mind. Was Hadvar to be the price I was to pay to the Divines, for stalling my fate and making excuses to remain in Whiterun with those who gave me the protection and immediate gratification I so desired for a family?

My thoughts couldn't settle on any one path. There was more movement, outside of my mind. Climbing stairs. Doors, opening and closing. Candles being lit. A question from Lucia; a gentle shushing from Lydia, and then Lucia was gone. Hands were on me, untying my evening dress.

My eyes swam and focussed on my housecarl. I stared at her but didn't really see her. I felt wan, insignificant, as though I was formless; a drifting, aimless spirit. The analogy made me clench my eyes shut once again, as the prospect of Hadvar's fate crashed down upon me like an unrelenting tide that was determined to drown me.

"Is he dead?" I uttered through my chattering teeth as I let her undress me for the first time since we had moved into Dragonsreach.

"No. Not yet," Lydia said quickly with efficiency in her tone. "Don't say those words, and try not to think them, dear little one. We do not know enough," she muttered, drawing my unlaced dress down over my shoulders and arms, over my hips, to let it pool at my feet.

The long under tunic I wore was thin by comparison, but I did not feel the chill of night as I stood wavering on the spot. I did not feel any heat or cool at all.

"Let me see what I can find out, over the coming days," she added swiftly.

" _Days_ ," I whimpered, dragging my eyes open to give Lydia an imploring look. "I can't... _days_? I cannot bear it, Lydia. The attack – if Hadvar has _died_ – it's because of _me_ ," my lips trembled the words.

"Reliable information takes time to recover," she soothed, drawing the circlet I had worn to dinner off my head, and smoothing my hair over my shoulders as she unwound it. "When you love someone, you _must not_ give them up for dead," she raised an eyebrow at me. "Not until the evidence is staring you in the face."

My lip quivered again as Lydia's hands gripped my shoulders in a more determined hold. Despite the haze, the torment drawing me in on myself – despite everything, I felt the importance of her words between us, and nodded that I understood.

I did understand her, clearer than I ever had, and did not judge her for it. She was referring to my father. I had wondered about her feelings toward him in the past, but her allusion bore the strength of an admission; she _had_ loved him.

Her feelings, and whether my father had loved her in return was none of my business. But, Lydia had not believed him to be dead until the day she had met me.

"I will get the tea things," she said quietly, lowering her hands and turning away.

I sank into the nearest seat. "I don't want tea."

"Suit yourself. But, I do," she quipped, sighing a shaky laugh for herself as she continued about her task.

With Lydia gone, and Lucia elsewhere – in their shared room I supposed, the silence deafened me. I searched about, suddenly desperate to think of anything _but_ the news the messenger had brought, and my eyes settled on the two letters, still clutched in my grasp.

My hand shook as I placed the letter I had written to Hadvar on the table beside me, and dragged my eyes away from my own handwriting to stare at the Legion seal instead. It was not a family seal, but the one of our governing body; the diamond-like sigil of the Imperial Dragon with its strong impression confidently pressed into the red wax. It was a seal that any General would use on behalf of, and as a servant of the Emperor of Tamriel.

I slipped my finger under the wax and lifted, unfolding General Tullius' reply. The letter was longer than I had expected it to be and its contents would have turned my blood to ice, had I not already suffered one major shock tonight.

Instead, as I read, the sense of unreality deepened:

 _Miss Passero,_

 _I appreciate the time you took out of your busy schedule to write me of your discovery, however I regret to inform you that the upper hierarchy of Imperial Legion has been aware of your sister's allegiance for many months. Your sister has been under investigation for some time; before the High King's murder, even. Giselle's involvement with the Stormcloaks can now be traced as far back to her first year at the College in Winterhold, and it is believed that she was instrumental in ensuring Stormcloak and his men access to and an escape route from the Blue Palace on the aforementioned evening._

On the edges of my awareness, I knew that I should have felt indignant, appalled, and upset, if this was true. The idea that Giselle had been _responsible_ for our parent's deaths was too much to take in at this moment, however.

So I read on, with barely a huff of acknowledgement.

 _It is for this reason that I deemed it necessary, once I arrived in Skyrim, to freeze all external access to your family's finances. Several unaccounted withdrawals at the time of the murder indicated that Giselle was siphoning money from the Passero fortune to help Ulfric Stormcloak fund his efforts, the moment he had secured the war they so desperately wanted._

 _When you next find yourself in Solitude, I will personally accompany you to your accountant and arrange for a secondary account to be set up in your name, so that you might regain access to what remains of your fortune._

So. That was the answer to _that_ mystery. Again, I merely huffed, staring dully at the words on the page, wondering if this night, if this past _hour_ , had really occurred. The event that Hadvar had written of in his first letter to me, that required my return to Solitude to resolve, had _nothing_ to do with my being in Helgen that fateful day after all.

Unable to process any of this in any great detail yet, I continued reading the General's small, tidy script:

 _Contrary to your belief, I do not wish for you to join the war. Apologies for my frankness, but one Passero daughter is enough to negotiate. Two opposing one another and each claiming to be the Nord's fabled hero would turn this calamity into an outright bloodbath. So, for all of our sakes, Miss Passero, I beg you, with the utmost respect I can offer, to stay well out of our affairs, and I in turn will stay out of these Dragonborn duties that you find thrust upon yourself by the Nords._

 _With warmest regards, and long live the Emperor,  
GEN Tullius_

I sat back, staring at the letter in disbelief. He didn't want me, want the _Dragonborn_ , I corrected. I placed the letter down on the table by me, still staring at it. The Legion wanted me to keep _out_ of the war.

It was ridiculous for me to feel rejected, when I had been determined to stay out of it for myself, but if I felt anything, it _was_ that. To understand that Ulfric Stormcloak had wanted, perhaps even _convinced_ my sister, who was _not_ the Dragonborn, to fight for him years ago, and that the Empire, _my_ Empire, did not, was just another blow on top of the night of blows, however ridiculous it was for me to feel it.

Hadvar had been so certain that they would ask me to join.

 _Hadvar. Do you live? Or are you with my dear father now, in Sovngarde?_

 _No_. I turned away from the letters, clenching my eyes closed again in an effort to dislodge the thought. _Think of something else. Anything else._

 _Think about Giselle_.

My eyes opened in a flash, and I glanced to the letter the General had penned again as if by staring at it I could learn more from it. The Empire had reason to believe that she had been working for Ulfric Stormcloak for almost _three years_.

I shook my head as I tried to find cause to reject what the General had written; what I had heard with my own ears outside of the Nightgate inn, yet again. But now that the idea had been presented to me, all manner of evidence, of the most personal, familiar nature, fired up within me, not only confirming what I had just read, but asking me how I could have been so blind to not realise the truth of my sister's allegiance before now.

I had noticed a change in Giselle after she had gone to the college. She had returned home for her holidays, perhaps to keep up appearances, but she had made it clear to us that she wanted to be elsewhere. She had told us that she wanted to be back with her friends, and I had assumed that she had meant her college friends in Winterhold. I had scoffed at the prospect that my now snooty, cosmopolitan sister believed _Winterhold_ to be of greater society than Solitude, the actual seat of the High King.

With a thud to my chest, I realised even more and my eyes widened, startled. This information – Giselle's position – explained Ulfric Stormcloak's reaction to _me_. It explained his behaviour when I had been brought before him, on the border of Skyrim and Cyrodiil when I had been trying to go to the Imperial City. It explained why he had held my chin and examined me, and my family seal for so long. He had been checking, _confirming_ , that I was not his agent, despite looking exactly like her, before he gave his orders.

With a groan, I leaned forward in my chair and buried my head in my hands, as the realisations crashed down upon me one after the other; it explained why the Legion had been so ready to arrest me with the Stormcloaks in the encampment that night; why the Legate who Hadvar had tried to speak up against had not faltered against my weak pleas, and had sent me straight to the chopping block. They - those in the know - had thought I was _Giselle_.

 _If the Legion's information is correct,_ I acknowledged, _then this war is_ _ **Giselle's**_ _fault. But how – and why could she want_ _ **war**_ _?_

Lydia returned, bearing a laden tea tray, and I was none the wiser to my internal questions. I couldn't meet her eyes, after all I had learned and realised in her absence. She ask me something, about whether I had changed my mind yet as she set the tray down on the same table I had placed the letters on.

I shook my head and motioned toward the General's note. I couldn't find my voice to ask her to read it, but the gesture seemed to be enough to tell her that she could.

I felt her green gaze on me as she took it up. She remained standing, and silent. She was reading. She was learning who might have been instrumental in securing, if not entirely responsible for the war Skyrim now found itself fighting. She was learning who had been responsible for the death of the man she had loved; his own daughter.

Surely, I warred while Lydia read, whatever Giselle's motives were for joining with Stormcloak, she could _not_ have intended for our parents to be killed. I remembered her as she had been the night of their deaths; pale and trembling as she had come to collect me at the Blue Palace, and then sobbing fitfully over mother's body in our garden. She had been shocked, and grieved by their deaths.

 _It was more than that,_ a knowing voice rasped through me. _What you saw was not her grief, but her guilt._

My rising fury fought with my disbelief, and I knew that there would be only one way to resolve the opposing forces. A new thought; _go to Giselle_ ; pressed upon me at once.

I reconsidered just as swiftly. It would be suicide to go anywhere near Windhelm, near _Ulfric_ , particularly if Giselle _was_ as involved with the Stormcloaks as the Legion suggested.

 _That doesn't matter. Ulfric doesn't matter. This is about family, about honour. You must confront her and ask for the truth._

I wanted to laugh at myself; a piteous, mocking laugh in the face of my zealous folly. My want of family honour and pride would likely see me imprisoned, if not killed, if I went. And, I was not at liberty to leave Whiterun, let alone journey to the seat of my enemy to face my sister.

 _Enemies._

 _STOP,_ I commanded desperately. Giselle and I had not seen eye to eye for a very long time, but she was _not_ \- _could not_ be my enemy!

 _Then go to her. Do what you do best, and **talk** her out of the mess she has gotten herself into. If the Legion find her first, they will execute her, and if she remains where she is, Ulfric will drag both her and the Passero name down with him as he fights against all your family have ever fought to uphold._

I pressed my fingers into my temple as I felt a headache swelling there. In the corner of my vision, I noticed Lydia flicker a glance my way.

"Don't," I begged her, turning my eyes up to meet her large, sad, sympathetic ones. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm allowed to look at you," she whispered, sitting beside me finally. She placed the letter down gingerly on the table, over the top of the unopened one I had written to Hadvar.

Her tone was steady, and calming, but I took her words on board and felt a weight to them, whether she had intended it or not. I had been demanding, close to ordering her; something I had promised I would never do when we were alone. I leaned toward her at once, burying my face in her shoulder again.

"I'm so sorry, Lydia," I gasped out, choking back a sob as my housecarl's hands fell to my back.

She rubbed in gentle, soothing circles. "Why are _you_ sorry, little one? You could not have anticipated this."

"But I should have," I glanced up to her, gauging her for response, but she was nothing but calm. "It's _her_ fault that the men we love are dead," I made myself say to her.

"Hadvar is not dead," Lydia sighed, standing. She moved toward the room she shared with her adopted daughter, and for a moment I thought that she had decided to retire for the night – but of course she hadn't. She merely closed the door with a barely-audible click, and then turned back to me.

"Have some tea," she urged, motioning toward the tray she had returned with.

I shook my head.

"It will make you feel better," she insisted.

" _Nothing_ will make me feel better."

Lydia was before me again. Reaching over, she pursed her lips and determinedly set about preparing two cups of tea.

She didn't meet my eyes as she spoke, very quietly. "I understand that you have suffered a shock. Several shocks, tonight, and for that, I am very sorry," she sighed, replacing the teapot on the tray and splashing milk in both cups deftly. "But, listen to me well, little one. You cannot let unverified hearsay pierce your soul and stall your progress," she turned, meeting my eyes finally and offering one of the cups before her.

Feeling defeated, I took it, settling the saucer on my lap idly. "Because I'm the Dragonborn?" I asked her morosely.

"No," she sat, picking up her own saucer and holding the cup close to her lips as she blew across the rim. Her breath pushed the steam drifting off the liquid toward me.

I watched her, waiting for her to explain as she took a small sip, then placed the saucer and cup on the table, then sat back more comfortably in her chair; all very deliberate movements, as though she was organising her thoughts through a series of physical actions.

Once she had settled herself, she met my eyes again, even more composed, and continued. "You must endure this news, these new _rumours_ , because that is all they are at this moment, because you are Celeste Passero," her expression was level. "And, you will endure, as those of us who are not at war must," she added quietly. "Tomorrow, you will go about your duty, just as the thousands of men and women who wonder hourly about the fate of _their_ loved ones do," her voice rose as she instructed.

I sat back, watching her in some disbelief, but would have been a fool to not realise that it was pointless to argue about this. She was right; this anxiety that threatened my hopes for a future with Hadvar was no different to the feelings most of Skyrim's people felt every day. I would steel myself against Erthos' report, and the possibility that I had caused the attack on the Pale garrison, and live in hope. I _had_ to live in hope, until Lydia had made her promised enquiries, and heard back from them.

I reached forward and grasped Lydia's hand. "You will tell me the moment you hear something, won't you? No matter the outcome?" I asked her.

She pursed her lips, but nodded, squeezing my hand in reply, and then released me.

Lydia drank her tea, and I took sips of my own, for her sake, since she had gone to the trouble of bringing it, but I didn't taste it. We spoke no more of the letters, or of family, or of our loved ones. She asked me a few questions about my day, which I answered dutifully, but automatically. Eventually, she rose, announcing that she was going to bed, and that I should consider retiring also.

I agreed with her softly, and we parted; she for her bedroom, and I for mine.

As soon as I clicked the door closed behind me, I leant against it and closed my eyes.

 _Don't let it consume you,_ I schooled as my mind threatened to torment me for the hours to come over Hadvar's fate.

But by forcing my thoughts away from Hadvar, all I could turn to was the information the General had revealed about my sister. His letter had filled in too many gaps for me to deny what he had written, regardless of whether Lydia intended to make enquiries about _this_ matter, too. I knew it in my heart, as though I had always known and simply suppressed the truth; Giselle was a Stormcloak, and had been for several years. She had helped Ulfric to orchestrate the attack on the High King which had resulted in the Civil war, and our parent's deaths.

She had very likely been part of the Stormcloak brigade that had attacked the Pale garrison.

 _She might have captured Hadvar and taken him to Windhelm in your place, just as you feared._

I pressed my palms to my closed eyes and winced to try and expel the traitorous, torturous thoughts. This was hopeless. Everything, _every_ path my mind took led me back to Hadvar.

 _If he is in Windhelm, then he is alive,_ I tried to reason.

 _But, for how long,_ I immediately countered?

Frustrated, at myself, at the Jarl for ordering me to remain in Whiterun, at Giselle for the part she was playing in destroying my life, and even at Lydia for demanding that I keep calm when all I wanted to do was weep, I stormed across my room and flung open the curtains of the large window behind my bed. I knelt on the pillows to stare out into the black night.

I wanted to shout at the glass; to shatter it and feel the sharp bite of cool air as it washed over my cheeks, to convince me that this night was real; to convince me that _I_ was whole. I repressed the urge to use the thu'um. To give in to it would bring Lydia, and likely half of the soldiers in the castle to me, and then I would have to explain to them why I had damaged Dragonsreach.

So I settled for pressing my forehead against the glass, and looked out into the night. The moons had not yet risen, and the sky was awash with dark clouds in places and clusters of twinkling stars in others. All was still and silent, and the fine details of the vista were lost in the shadows upon shadows laid out before me. I forced myself to keep looking upon the vast emptiness, which served to distance me from all else as a primal fear crept over me, urging me to draw my attention back to the pale light of the single, flickering candle in my bedroom. But I made myself keep looking out over the dark hold instead.

When the cacophony in my mind had been silenced, all that remained was the persistent thought that, regardless of danger or personal consequence, I would _have_ to find a way to leave Whiterun, and go to Windhelm.

I would make Giselle explain herself, and answer for all she had done, to our family, and to the sons and daughters of Skyrim.

And if she had attacked Hadvar's garrison, and captured him, all because of my _stupid_ letter, I would save him.


	34. The Harbinger's Cure

_Chapter 34: The Harbinger's Cure_

I couldn't sleep.

No matter how I tried, there didn't seem to be anything I could do about it. When I wasn't agonising over Hadvar's fate, I was fuming over Giselle's. My mind simply would not settle for long enough to allow me to drift off.

After I tossed and turned pointlessly for several hours, I rose and dressed in my training garb as though it were morning – and I was certain that it technically must have been – and I was preparing for Jorrvaskr.

I would go to the mead hall, but not to practise, for I did not wish to punish the training dummies any more than I wanted to remain in my bed with only my circling thoughts for company.

I yearned to speak to Kodlak of all that had passed; to sink into the chair at his table and pour my heart out to him, and to be warmed by his calm, generous replies. He would have been able to help me forge the most appropriate path forward. And if he had not been able to, his words had always put me at ease, as though his wisdom was a song my soul had been calling for, which might have helped me to settle on the correct course for myself.

As it was, I believed that I had no choice but to find a way to journey to Windhelm. My heart was set on the notion, but understanding that by going I would learn the truths that my mind craved pained me almost as much as not knowing did.

Before leaving my rooms, I scratched a hasty note to Lydia, explaining that I had gone to Jorrvaskr early. I left it on the drawing room table, where I knew she would find it when she rose.

The letters were still on the table; the one from the General lying open where I had left it. Staring at it, and the unopened letter beside it, I made a swift decision and grabbed both, shoving them into the pocket in my trousers. I was loathed to carry them as a constant reminder, but I didn't want the information within either to be read by anyone, be it servants, or any other idle minds that might find themselves in my rooms for whatever reason. Next I threw on my boots, coat and scarf, grabbed my bow in one hand to support my pretence, a candle in the other, and slipped out.

The candle was lit from one of the hallway sconces, and then I had no further reason to delay. My heart thumped in opposition to my footfalls as I hurried through the dark, empty halls of Dragonsreach, wary that I might bump into a guard, or a steward, or even the Jarl, at every turn. I knit together my excuses; it was the same I had offered to Lydia; that I was having trouble sleeping, and I was making for Jorrvaskr early, to commence my daily training. See? I even had my bow with me.

But I met nobody within, and the path between Dragonsreach and Jorrvaskr was only manned by a handful of disinterested Whiterun guards. The night was clear and cold, and both moons were aloft, lighting the stairs and limning the Gildergreen's pale boughs so that they seemed to be eerily glowing and creaking and alive. My candle extinguished as soon as I stepped outside and was exposed to a stiff, freezing breeze. I handed it to one of the nearby men on patrol, offering him no explanation.

Nobody questioned me as it was, and I began to wonder if leaving for Windhelm might be as simple as stealing away during the night?

I dismissed the thought at once. To leave in such an underhanded way would sever my bonds with the Jarl, and thus Whiterun, forever, and that was something that I was not willing to do, even for Giselle.

 _Even for Hadvar?_

I shuddered; my prompting inner-voice carried the trace of a taunt.

I descended the stairs to the Gildergreen at a run. I could not think of it. It was all on my shoulders if Giselle or Ulfric did anything to him; I knew it, and they knew it. I would do whatever it took to save him, if he had been captured. But to run into Windhelm, demanding answers and that the Stormcloaks hand him over, if he _was_ in fact there, would be incredibly stupid, and might even get us both killed.

 _If he isn't already dead._

 _He lives,_ I countered myself immediately, turning and bounding up the broad stairs that led to Jorrvaskr. I had to do as Lydia had advised and live in hope, as the mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, and children of Skyrim were for their loved ones currently at war.

The mead hall was so stifling in contrast to the night air that I found myself gagging on the heady warmth as I shed my outer layers. I hung up my coat, bow and scarf near the door, and after a moment's consideration, also removed my boots so that the sound of them clopping against the floorboards wouldn't wake the Companions in the dormitory.

My socked footsteps made no sound as I made for the lower levels, but I knew that the Circle would already know I was here. Aela wouldn't have any reason to approach me, and I didn't mind if Farkas or Vilkas did.

I stepped into the living quarters and clicked the door shut softly behind me. I turned to glance down the long hallway, and my heart wrenched and twisted painfully as I sighted the empty desk and chairs at the very end.

Of _course_ they were empty. I had seen him killed with my own eyes. I had attended his funeral. Had I truly expected to come upon him sitting there tonight, as though the past weeks had been nothing but a horrible dream?

Walking toward the desk anyway, because I had nowhere else to go, I frowned, holding my arms around myself as a chill rippled over the back of my neck. Kodlak's departure still felt so _wrong_. I could not come to terms with the idea that I would never hear his voice again, or the scritch-scratch of his quill as he wrote in his journal.

I reached the chair that my Harbinger had usually sat in, and smiled sadly down at the leather-bound book that he had been so committed to, running my fingertips along the spine. Within it were his private thoughts, but also what he had discovered of their curse, and all he had unearthed in the pursuit of ending it.

Longing to be as close as I could to Kodlak, I sat in my usual place, beside his empty chair. I pulled his journal toward me, with the idea that perhaps his written words would provide for me what his spoken ones so often had; a calm solace. I opened it, surprised that there was no cover page. Kodlak's commentary began directly:

 _Where to begin the account of an old man who desires to abandon everything his forebears believed in? Perhaps with the vision that inspired this search, which has prompted me to document our journey._

 _We cannot dream, for sleep eludes those possessed by the beast. However, during the hours where it is possible through discipline to quiet the mind and obtain a relative rest, we might vision in that tesseract realm where time is tangible and frequently fluxes; where both our pasts and potential futures are as one; a place that those who can sleep slip through in seconds relative to their own understanding, without being conscious of its existence._

 _In this place, as the vision came upon me, I first saw a line of Harbingers, starting with Ysgramor. Each ascended to Sovngarde, until it was time for Terrfyg, who first turned us to the ways of the beast. He tried to enter Sovngarde, but before he could approach Tsun, he was set upon by a great wolf, who pulled him into the Hunting Grounds, where Hircine laughed with open, welcoming arms._

I shuddered as I leaned down on my elbow, my eyes flickering over Kodlak's handwriting, and imagined that he was sitting in his usual place beside me, telling me this story. Recalling the sound of his voice was a small comfort; like a favourite blanket that I could drape around my shoulders, and at once I did feel a little warmer, despite the dark tale unfolding on the pages before me. I continued reading, eager for my mind to provide the memory of his tones again.

Kodlak wrote more about the vision; of the other Harbingers that came after Terrfyg, each who by choice turned toward Hircine's grounds at their time of death, at the coaxing of more spectre wolves. When only Kodlak remained, he hesitated, then drew his sword against the great wolf who stepped up before him.

 _Then there was an echo of the metal against leather sound that had cut through the empty space when I had drawn my sword. I knew it to mean that there were others, behind me, drawing their own weapons against the wolf – yet, I knew it to be_ _ **my**_ _wolf that they were preparing to meet. I did not dare turn my back on this creature to see who it was, and with my wolf seperate from and before me, I could not sense who it was, as I might have done had we been merged._

 _As I expected of it, the wolf stood its ground, despite the weapons being raised against it. Its amber eyes focussed on me and it bared its teeth with a growl, but it did not sweep forward to claim me._

 _I took this to mean that it was not my turn, though its menacing aura loomed toward me, adding a definitive 'yet' to the understanding._

 _Only once I knew that it wouldn't claim me before my time did I risk turning away from the gates of the afterlives. The vision flickered, and I felt that I would drift out of it, very soon. Behind me I saw who I should have expected; my dearest boys, my beacons of support; Vilkas and Farkas, standing ready with their swords drawn, awaiting orders. Beyond the boys I saw the spirit of another; a petite frame, unknown to me, whose silhouette stood its ground without any weapons raised. In fact, she did not appear to have a sword or axe at her hip at all. Something was strapped over her shoulder – but it did not look to be a bow, and she was too small to be Aela. Her lack of weapon, along with the hazy nature of her features, and very appearance in my vision, told me that she was a harbinger of my, and perhaps the boys' futures. The shrouded figure stepped between Farkas and Vilkas, placing one hand each on their arms and encouraging them to lower their swords. They did._

 _I tried to make out her features in the gloom, so that I might know her if she walked among us, but it was as though my eyes were blurred with tears unshed which refused to clear no matter how I blinked. She turned her face toward me, and reached out her hand, so that I might take it and return to them. While her face was shadowed, and her dark hair floated around her like a cloud, her eyes were the brilliant, rich blue of that once most distinguished lineage, whose influence was lost to Nirn so long ago. She was a creature charged by the Divines, then. Perhaps the form of a young Saint Alessia, the first of His messengers, that I might recognise her as a spirit I could trust._

 _Everything faded before I could join her and the boys, or learn any more, but the vision had made its point, and its warning had not been lost on me. By accepting the beast-blood, I would not be admitted into Sovngarde upon my death, but would serve the Daedric Prince Hircine eternally in his hunting grounds._

 _It was a fate that had not been explained to me when I had taken the blood, and in turn I had never known to explain it to those to whom I had been forebear. Had I only to worry about my own soul, the fire and fear roused by the vision might ease over time and allow a weary acceptance to take its place. But for the souls of my family, I must always remember it._

 _I vow to never falter in my pursuits, or let my urgency be extinguished._ _ **There is a cure**_ _, and I shall find it for them._

And he had, hadn't he? Eorlund Grey-Mane was on the brink of reforging Wuuthrad, the final piece of the puzzle. The Circle were due to depart for Ysgramor's tomb the moment it was completed. He had done it, even if he would never know that he had.

I wondered how long it had been since he had experienced the vision, and written these first words? However long it had been, since then and for as long as I had known him, Kodlak had been focussed to this end. Vilkas, Farkas and Aela had all talked at times of fulfilling _Kodlak's_ final wishes; that _his_ soul be freed to enter Sovngarde, but of course the Harbinger had not intended his efforts to be for his own gain. He had done it for the Circle. For his family. I teared up at the understanding, fiercely feeling his loss, and made myself read on. I was glad that I did:

 _It was the appearance of the little enigma with blue eyes that convinced me a cure is attainable. Before penning this account, I spent many a day and night coming to terms with the finer details of the vision, and have determined that she symbolised our cure. She was able to stay Vilkas and Farkas' hands; an appeasement of their beasts who would fight, and she offered me the same choice, should I have the mettle to go to her – to_ _ **find**_ _it._

The back of my neck prickled as I read this paragraph, and not for the first time since I had started reading. _Appeasing their beasts?_ Wasn't that what _I_ had been doing, since I had come to Jorrvaskr? Kodlak had not known me when he had written this account, perhaps explaining why the features of the figure were so indistinct, but...

I shook my head. Sure, I had the blue eyes he spoke of. Loads of people had blue eyes. Was it conceited of me to place myself in the role of Kodlak's symbolic cure? Had the Harbinger misinterpreted his own dream, simply because he was yet to meet me? _Had_ the figure been me? And why – why would he vision of a girl he had never met, who was _not_ his cure? What did she symbolise, if not what he theorised?

The only way to find out was to read on and see if he'd written about the first night he'd met me. I scanned the pages, learning how the particulars of Kodlak's vision had been explained to the Circle, and how each of them had taken the information and Kodlak's new vows on board. He wrote of each of them with the kindness of a father; even Skjor and Aela, who had rejected his awakening and wilfully continued to live the way of the beast. It had been then that he, Vilkas and Farkas had pledged to not give in to their beasts and transform. Had Kodlak truly never turned since that day? I knew of one instance where Farkas had transformed, and had stood before Vilkas' werewolf twice since I had known him.

I continued flicking through and glancing over the pages, searching for my arrival, to see if he had recognised me as the woman from his vision. He wrote extensively of his research; starting with the history of the beast blood and determining how it had been first acquired. Once he had discovered that they had been tricked into accepting it through the use of magic, Kodlak's resolve had hardened. He believed their wolves to be a blight against everything the Companions stood for, for shield-siblings were supposed to meet their tasks using their _own_ strength, not a borrowed force obtained through what he perceived to be dishonest means.

Kodlak's more zealous divergences were difficult to read, as it was clear that he had penned them during his moments of internal suffering. Perhaps the act of writing his thoughts had helped to control and push back the werewolf, when it had tried to take him?

He wrote often of the Circle, and how they were coping. Skjor and Aela were unchanged in their determination to retain their beast-blood. Farkas seemed to live more in the moment than any man he had ever met, and was calmly confident that Kodlak would do right by them; a matter which the Harbinger felt guilty about as time dragged on and the cure continued to elude him. More and more frequently as I progressed through the journal, Kodlak wrote of his concern over Vilkas' ever-building torment. These sections I only skimmed, for I did not wish to intrude on what my shield-brother had told him in confidence.

But it was in the middle of one of these sections that I caught the word _Passero_ , and honed in on the context. _Passero seal_. He wrote of my ring. That's right – Kodlak had searched me, and then examined it when I had first approached him. He had identified me to be a Passero. I remembered being surprised that he had known it.

I pushed my own memories of the event aside, so that I could read Kodlak's impressions with an open mind:

 _It seems that I must exert a greater discipline over the rambling pieces of this puzzle that my mind desperately tries to glue together, or I might miss something more subtle, more critical to our goal._

 _Tonight, while Vilkas and I were in conference, a newcomer approached. She was young and slight of build, wearing a common dress and carrying no weapons, with a dark tangle of long curls surrounding her. When she stepped out of the shadows and into the light before me, and I met her eyes – clear and intelligent, and as blue as the Midyear sky – I was sure that my heart stopped, and that I looked upon my young Saint Alessia, stepped out of my vision to deliver our sought-after cure._

 _But of course, she is not a spirit stepped out of an old man's dream; she is as real as Vilkas and I are. She wore the Passero seal, of Cyrodiil; a family who have been loyal to the Empire since the Third Era, if my memory serves me correctly. She spoke with bravado; most who enter Jorrvaskr seeking work are filled with a sense of false-confidence, but as it happened, I misjudged her reason for approaching me, with my head clouded by the fanciful connection between this young lady and the shadowed harbinger from my vision._

 _She is not here to become a Companion. She is a bard, and she was merely seeking a night's lodgings and food in exchange for her crafts. She returns tonight, for the others enjoyment, and shall leave tomorrow._

 _I am compelled to convince her to join us, but I will bite my tongue and suppress this urge. As with the beast, I must not give in to it, for it is not an instinct but a force borne of the vision that drives me, and it would be a cruel thing to involve this young lady in our desperate search. I feel that the world must ask much of her, as it is. If she is to join us, some day, she must do it of her own choosing, and not of my influence._

I couldn't help but flush at Kodlak's initial thoughts about me. He wrote with a bitter disappointment, but not in me – in himself, as his mind tried to paint me as the shadowed figure from his vision. Had I but known what he felt at the time...

But I hadn't known Kodlak, or the other Companions, back then. I'd known nothing, really. I had thought only of my own needs. Scowling at my selfishness, I turned my eyes back down to the book, intent on continuing.

"Can't sleep?" Vilkas' voice came to me as a low rumble.

I turned my strained eyes up to him, feeling caught out, and my flush renewed. Would he be mad at me for reading Kodlak's journal?

He didn't look angry. He was standing a few paces away, looking entirely ordinary and calm, dressed in comfortable, common garb with bare feet and no trace of warpaint on his face.

I shook my head, closing the journal as I sat up straighter in my chair, but marking my place with my finger.

Leaving Kodlak's chair where it was, Vilkas retrieved another, sitting it opposite me and settling into it with a weary sigh. "Do you want to talk about it?" he murmured softly.

Flicking a glance to Kodlak's journal uncertainly, I met his stoic expression with another shake to my head. "I've not made it very far. Have you read it?" I asked.

"I didn't mean the journal," Vilkas held his hand out for it at once.

"I didn't read the parts about you," I mumbled as I hesitantly handed it over.

Vilkas rose and replaced Kodlak's journal on the desk, set out before his old chair, adjusting it so that its base was parallel to the table edge. "It wouldn't matter to me if you did," his fingers lingered on the tan cover, before he removed them, somewhat regretfully, and turned to face me. "There are very few secrets between us any more, shield-sister," he raised an eyebrow at me as the corner of his mouth twitched and he eased back onto his seat.

I stared dully at him as the secrets I had learned about Giselle and Hadvar the previous night began to consume me, yet again. "You can sense that I am troubled?" I asked flatly.

Vilkas crossed his brows at me. "Why else would you seek out Kodlak in the middle of the night?"

"No, I mean," I faltered, motioning toward him by way of explanation. "You can _sense_ it?"

Now it was Vilkas' turn to hesitate and his expression flattened. He murmured in a low tone, "Of course I can. But – I'm not going to try and _guess_ what it is that you fear."

"Fear?" I baulked. I had expected something more complicated.

"There are many layers to fear," he continued, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at something beyond me; at nothing. "Yours is crossing many of them. It is a fear that cannot be appeased."

"I don't understand," I sat back, shaking my head, realising that he was sensing, _smelling_ all of this from me, right now.

Vilkas shrugged. "I find it difficult to put feelings into words, when they are woven so. Perhaps you should just tell me what's happened?" he met my eyes again, somewhat pointedly.

I realised then why he had approached me – Vilkas was trying to fill Kodlak's boots in all regards, including offering his ear at any hour, and counsel if I wished it. I pushed away my frustration at his rambling explanation, reminding myself that he had lost his mentor, his father-figure; Vilkas had been taking late-night conferences with Kodlak for many years before I had arrived.

I reached into my pocket, retrieved both letters, and extended them hurriedly for Vilkas to take away.

He did, but I kept my eyes lowered as the dull fog of remembrance drifted across my vision, like a cloud blocking the sun.

I heard a rustle of paper from Vilkas' direction. He'd opened the General's letter, then; I knew he wouldn't open a sealed note unless it was addressed to him. But perhaps he already knew what the letter addressed to Hadvar meant, given that he had suggested I write to him and the General, upon our return from Driftshade?

During the silent minutes where Vilkas read, I stared at my hands and tried to think of nothing. To distract my thoughts, I told myself, over and over, that Vilkas would know what to do. He knew more than most, having witnessed everything that had happened at the Nightgate inn, but he was far enough removed from Giselle and Hadvar that he might be able to propose a logical course of action. His head would be clearer than mine, on this matter.

The rustle of paper came again, and Vilkas' hand, with the General's letter in his grasp, entered my line of sight.

I met his eyes as I took it. "Well?" I asked; my voice smaller and more fearful than I had expected it to be.

Before I could retreat with the letter, his fingers closed around mine, and he fixed me with his sorrow-filled silver eyes. "The other one," he vaguely held up the unopened letter in his free hand. "Why have you handed me a letter meant for Hadvar's eyes?"

My hand went limp in his. He knew - I knew that he knew - but he wanted me to say it, wanted me to voice the words, which would make it more real.

Feeling wan and pale, and speaking in a dull, soft voice, I managed to briefly explain what Erthos had told Lydia and I.

"Shor's balls," Vilkas muttered when I had finished, leaning forward and enveloping me in a hug.

I sighed against him, feeling devoid of emotion. "So, shield-brother; now I must hope that my sister, who it turns out has been working for Ulfric for several years, has captured the man that I love, and that they won't kill him while I elude them," I laughed bleakly.

He didn't reply and only held me tighter, which I took to mean that he agreed with my assessment. I had been expecting him to reject it. I had expected him to behave as Lydia had done, or how Kodlak might have done; with words of endurance and fortitude.

But he remained silent, eventually easing back from me and lowering his hands, only to shake his head. "What are you going to do?"

"The only thing I can do," I answered swiftly, setting my jaw determinedly in readiness for his response. "I am going to Windhelm."

I had expected he would protest, but again, Vilkas surprised me. He looked grim about it, but he nodded. His eyes drifted to Kodlak's place, to the journal before it perhaps, and he muttered, "I will go with you."

"What?" a surge of alarm rushed through me, fierce for my lack of feeling anything else. I stared at my shield-brother, berating myself for constantly misjudging his reactions before he had made them. I owed Vilkas better than this, confusion of mind or not.

"Jarl Balgruuf will never permit you go to Windhelm," he added, as though it explained what he had said.

Recovered slightly, my shoulders fell as I agreed. "I know. And I don't want to have to break my promise to him."

"And if you show or explain the contents of the letter, he will forbid you from going," Vilkas added, as though I hadn't spoken. "The Jarl will believe it to be a trap."

"Isn't it?" I asked Vilkas morosely.

Vilkas shook his head, but his answer was more vague. "We don't know enough to make that call."

"All right," I took a deep breath, sitting back and endeavouring to tug my mind up out of the dense fog of despair. My heart leapt at the notion that if I _was_ decided on going to Windhelm, Vilkas would help me. The realisation gave me both hope, and a contrasting shudder of anxiety. _Could_ I bare going there and learning the truth? Either way I feared that the outcome would be bleak. Perhaps this is what Vilkas had meant, when he had spoken of the layers of fear, and a fear that could not be appeased.

"Thank you," I whispered, belatedly.

"What are shield-brother's for?" he murmured humourlessly. "But I have one condition, or request, if you would," Vilkas shifted his weight on his seat, leaning forward again.

I nodded, waiting.

He seemed uncertain for a moment, then the glimmer I had caught of it was gone. "Wait until I am free of the beast."

I didn't reply, but he must have caught a whiff of my confusion.

"Eorlund told me last night that he'll be finished with Wuuthrad today. Farkas, Aela and I are prepared. We mean to leave within the hour of its completion," he explained.

I felt ill at the prospect; in knowing that they would be gone this time tomorrow, for an indeterminable length of time, and Divines knew what trials they would have to overcome on their journey. " _Can't_ I come with you?" I asked softly, knowing what his answer would be.

Vilkas' mouth echoed a smile as he looked away, not needing to say what I already knew. "I've talked it over with Aela and Farkas, and this morning I will tell the others that you are a member of the Circle," his gaze drifted back to me, and there was still that hint of a smile to his lips. "That will place you in charge, while we are gone. Once it has been announced to our shield-siblings, I mean to visit the Jarl to give him the good news."

The rare, secretive smile of Vilkas' was a little infectious; I felt the corner of my mouth lift in response. By being welcomed into the Circle, my responsibilities would bring me back to Jorrvaskr for longer periods of time. I doubted that I would be permitted to miss the Jarl's dinners without a good excuse, but my duty to the Companions, particularly while the others were away, would take priority over attending the Jarl in court. "Thank you," I replied, though yet again, it came out as a whisper.

Vilkas waved his hand dismissively. "We should be away for a week, or perhaps a little more. And, when I am returned, and myself again, I'll take you to Windhelm. Can you wait a week for me?"

I didn't want to wait a _day_ , but I didn't have much choice unless I wanted to risk openly opposing the Jarl's orders. I nodded, telling, _begging_ myself to be contented with this condition.

"Good," Vilkas stood, satisfied, and I envied him that. "I'll leave you to your..." his eyes drifted to the book I had been reading when he had come upon me, and his smile gradually fell as he stared at Kodlak's journal.

I reached toward it swiftly, holding the book to my chest, and Vilkas' eyes followed the path the journal took, then glanced up to mine. His eyes were sad again, but it was a different sort of sad to before; this type was more guarded, as though he was worried about something underneath his sorrow.

"It helps me to feel close to him," I offered by way of excuse for my behaviour.

Vilkas nodded once, but didn't reply for a while as he observed me. I glanced down hurriedly, bearing his scrutiny, opening the book in my lap and flipping the pages to locate my place.

"He was right, you know," Vilkas sighed. I looked up at his pronouncement, but he was staring at the ground and shaking his head, as though he was laughing to himself, but he didn't actually laugh.

"He usually was," I mused gently.

"He saw who you were to us, before we knew you," he added, lifting his eyes just far enough to meet mine; the vague wariness still apparent.

I huffed. "He thought I knew how to cure you," I murmured. "I was reading about it before you came to me," I shook my head. "I can't break your curse. You are doing that for yourself."

"Ah. You haven't read far enough," Vilkas rumbled, and his unease seemed to melt away.

Keeping my finger in the place I had gotten to, I closed the book and sat up straighter again. So, Vilkas _had_ read it already. Now I didn't feel so awkward about being caught with it.

"What did he think I was?" I asked the obvious.

Vilkas' small, hesitant smile was back, and he shook his head. "You would rather hear it from him, than from me," he turned away.

I frowned at his back, uncertain if what he'd said was true, for I trusted his word as much as Kodlak's. But I let him go. Vilkas had the most important journey of his life ahead of him, and didn't need to be weighed down by my personal dramas.

"Training begins at dawn," he had stopped, and glanced over his shoulder, to remind me.

I settled myself more comfortably, turned my eyes down to the book, and assured him that I would be there. I scanned the open page, full of Kodlak's scribings, wondering where I might find his assessment of what he believed I was to the Companions. I heard Vilkas' bare footsteps retreat as dull thuds, and eventually, the click of a door being closed.

With Vilkas returned to his room, I glanced up to the space he had occupied, and found myself wishing he was still seated before me. I wondered, for a moment, if I should take Kodlak's journal and go to him? It had been days since I had sung for him or his brother, and on the eve of their final journey as werewolves, they might have appreciated a tune, since none of us were able to find sleep as it was.

 _No. It will only annoy Aela_ , I reasoned, turning my eyes back down to the book. _Besides. They know that if they want music, they need only ask. I will not force myself on them and intrude on their quiet time._

I made myself focus on what I was reading again instead. Kodlak wrote briefly of my first performance; the program I had intended to play for the High King that fateful night, though none of the Companions had known it:

 _Little Celeste filled the halls with song tonight, as we had agreed, and her voice filled me with a hope that I have not felt since I was a whole man. Once again, hours after I dismissed the notion as folly, I am having difficulty in believing that she is not the harbinger from my vision; a bright beacon guiding our troubled souls back from the abyss on the edge of which we seem to eternally teeter._

 _Our research_ _ **will**_ _unearth a cure, but while we search, perhaps Celeste Passero will be able to smooth the path we tread and allow us to think and see clearer than we have in the past._

 _Vilkas came to me, after our songstress had retired to the bed she had won for her efforts, and he seemed a changed man. The brightness in his heart was overflowing, vanquishing the anguish he carries knit about his soul, and it pains me to know that this light will fade if we let our little dove fly away come morning. I have proposed that we offer her a contract, and Vilkas has agreed to speak with her when she wakes._

I shuddered and closed my eyes, remembering that morning well. Vilkas, who I had not really known at all, had been alone, taking breakfast in the mead hall, and reading. I had thought he was working, but it turned out he had been waiting to speak to me. But, he hadn't – had he? I cast my mind back to that moment, and was certain that he had not mentioned the contract Kodlak wrote of until I had already taken my leave. And I had turned them down, afraid of tying myself to this one place.

How disappointed Kodlak must have been in me then! I almost couldn't bare reading on, for I knew that he would have seen the evasive way I had fled Jorrvaskr as a rejection of _them._

Turning my eyes back down, I shook my head at myself. I had come back, so it didn't matter. I read on, and found only a minor reference to my refusal, in between more investigations into the location of the Glenmoril witches.

I turned the pages swiftly, wondering when I might come to the part that Vilkas had eluded to; where Kodlak realised what I was to them. In the scheme of things it didn't matter, as they were about to be cured, but I was curious, and Kodlak's journal was proving to be just the distraction my mind needed from the uncertainties surrounding Hadvar's whereabouts and Giselle's betrayal. I found the place where he had written of my coming back to Jorrvaskr:

 _Our little dove has returned to us. The impressions I carried with regards to her future, and ours, have been vindicated in a way I could not have possibly imagined._

 _She is Dragonborn. Who better to serve the Gods in my vision than she? I will leave my suspicions of her progenitors out of this volume, for it is irrelevant to our goals, but perhaps, after our cure has been realised, and her duties have given her liberty to stay a while, I might touch on the subject with her, out of a more personal interest. I doubt very much that the Empire would make anything of such talk, but for her sake, we will maintain caution._

I sighed shakily at this; Kodlak was being deliberately evasive, but I understood what he eluded to, because I had queried Farengar in a similar vein when I had first found out about my being Dragonborn. Kodlak was assuming that because I was Dragonborn, I must have been a hidden descendant of the Septim line. But if this was true, Giselle would be Dragonborn as well, and I knew that she wasn't, or she would not have bothered adopting my name, or now be pretending to be me. Farengar had confirmed that while the Septims had been dragonborn and passed the honour along their line to each Emperor and Empress as part of their covenant with the Divines until the Oblivion Crisis, Akatosh had and always would determine who was Dragonborn, as the need arose.

Still, I felt sad that Kodlak and I would never be able to discuss the matter, now. This sobering thought made me turn my eyes back to the page, desperate to hear what was left of his voice.

 _I am glad that she will be here with us on this, the final days of our search. Farkas is happy she is here, and his open acceptance has always been a strong point within him. Vilkas is quietly pleased but maintains his professional front. His heart glows when she is near, as though her very presence is a song to him. I am not certain that he is conscious of his response, for he has suppressed his impulses for so long, out of his deep-seated fear of causing harm, but it is his business, so I will write no more in that regard. I write only of her unconscious influence over him – and to a lesser extent, his brother – because it confirms that she was the mysterious one in my vision who stayed their hands, which means that she_ _ **does**_ _have a role to play in our quest for a cure._

Curious, and a little scared by what I had read, I hazarded a glance toward the hallway that led to Vilkas and Farkas' rooms. I had understood that my music had effected them, and calmed their beasts, but something about the way Kodlak had explained it made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to have such control as he wrote of over anyone, least of all my shield-brothers, and had never intended on _bewitching_ them into helping me.

The hallways were still and silent. I shook my head at myself in frustration, turning my eyes back to the page. Whatever had happened, all that was written here – I had to keep reminding myself, it was _past_. I had earned my place amongst the Companions, and both Vilkas and Farkas were as important to me as true brothers might have been. In a matter of days, they would no longer need my songs, and any hold I unwittingly had over them would depart with their beasts. Resolved by this idea, I read on:

 _I will keep her close, even if I am wrong and she has no part to play in ending our curse. I find her presence soothing, and enjoy talking with her. She has a honeyed tongue, as most bards do, and often speaks before thinking her words through to conclusion, but her heart is true and pure. Perhaps it is the dragon within her who appeases the beast within me, when her siren's voice is at rest._

 _Skjor and Aela are not so pleased that she has returned, but I am confident that when they see the good she is doing to the others, they will come around, and she may be the key to convincing them to renounce the beast blood, where I have failed..._

Guilt and regret pooled within me and I stopped reading to sit back and simply stare at Kodlak's handwriting. I didn't want to be reminded of Skjor, and how he and Aela had tried to turn me, and what had followed with the Silver Hand. I had come to a point in the journal that would now only dredge up more painful memories the longer I read.

I put the journal down where it belonged, where I had come upon it, and rose slowly, my eyes glued to its bound leather cover. Perhaps I could ask Vilkas to explain what I wanted to know again, when he joined me for training. Perhaps if I told him why I had stopped, he would tell me this time when I asked. And, perhaps I could offer him a song or three while we worked, to soften any torment he was enduring in silence before they left for Ysgramor's tomb.

Resolved to read no more, for the time being at least, I padded upstairs. Dawn could not be so far away, as it was, and until then I could sit in the mead hall, take some breakfast, wait for Vilkas to rise, and try not to think.

* * *

 _A/n: It was a lovely surprise to see some familiar faces/regulars from TTLS reviewing - welcome to the tale, Aberron and Deplaisance de la Nuit!_


	35. Living by Hope

_Chapter 35: Living by Hope_

As it eventuated, there was no time to talk to Vilkas about what Kodlak had thought I was before the Circle left for Ysgramor's tomb. Eorlund had completed the repair of Wuuthrad by dawn, the Circle had kicked the rest of the Companions out of bed, and everyone had wearily assembled in the mead hall; their looks ranging from dazed to murderous.

The Circle stood together on the rug in front of the hearth before the u-shaped cluster of tables. They were prepared for battle, wearing their usual armour and with every strap and shoulder bearing a weapon of some description. For a moment, I wondered if Aela would freeze to death in her favourite skimpy arrangement, but wasn't daft enough to question her choice. Their blood ran hotter than non-werewolves, anyway; Vilkas hadn't flinched in the snow when we had been far north together. The cold would be the least of their worries.

Vilkas was holding Wuuthrad before him in a relaxed manner as he watched everybody stumble into chairs around the main table. I observed him from my own seat, struck by how at peace he seemed. Farkas was on his left and Aela his right, and the fire between us flickered reflected light over him; from the lines of his armour to the inky black mop of hair made red by the blaze, to the scars and stubble on his face.

The role of leader seemed to _suit_ him, as though he had been born for it. If he was nervous about their journey and the struggle they would face, or that he might be challenged by his wolf during their travels, he didn't betray it.

Those gathering muttered and whispered to one another in low tones, even after they had sat. Aela's penetrating glare and Vilkas' pointed clearing of his throat got the message across to Athis, Vignar and Brill, but seemed to have no effect on Njada or Torvar, who continued to grumble to one another.

"Shut your mouths, or I'll shut them for you," Farkas drawled lazily, his tone resonating despite its lowered volume. They complied, both with a start as though Farkas had barked his words, and the air in the mead hall somewhat begrudgingly settled.

"We have a promise to keep to Kodlak," Vilkas began, breaking the silence. "So, we'll be gone for a few days."

"You're leaving _right_ _now_?" Athis called out, with a frown in his voice.

"No leaving feast?" Torvar added in a bit of a grumble.

Farkas settled his silvery eyes on the Nord, in warning it seemed. Vilkas mirrored his twin's shift in focus, but with less annoyance and a small nod toward the Dunmer.

"Yes, within the hour. It is a matter of honour that has been delayed for long enough, and we must not wait any longer. But, before we leave," Vilkas' eyes found me, and the corner of his mouth rose slightly. "We have an announcement to make."

"Wait, their leaving isn't the announcement?" I heard Njada whisper.

"It cannot have escaped anybody's notice, whether you are in Jorrvaskr for days or hours at a time between jobs," Vilkas continued, "that our newest recruit has forged her place among us, despite the challenges we have faced over that time."

I felt more eyes on me, and managed to suppress the rising flush by reminding myself that I was used to exposing myself emotionally to my shield-siblings, every time I sang for them. Listening to Vilkas speak about me should have been a breeze.

I could tell that most of them knew what was going to be said, but I somehow felt as though I was standing naked before them. It would have been easier to get up and sing. I returned Vilkas' smile, hoping that I didn't look as small and fearful as I felt by what he was about to say, and what it would make me to the people in this room. I could do this; I _would_ do this, for them, and for me. _Use the nerves,_ I schooled myself. _Perform, if you must._

"Would you join us, Celeste?" Vilkas asked, quietly as though we had no audience and he was sitting before me around Kodlak's table.

"I would be honoured," I stood, in what I hoped was a smooth, relaxed manner, and padded toward the Circle. My socked feet made little noise against the flagstones and behind me, all was silent.

"This past month will be regaled to future Companions as a time of change. Much of it unexpected, and unwanted," Vilkas added, while I made my way around the tables. I halted beside Farkas. I cast the brother a glance, but his focus was on the Companions, so I turned to face the small audience as well.

Vilkas continued, "We have taken significant losses, but contracts keep arriving from the people of Skyrim, asking for the might of the Companions to help them. We are strong, and will become stronger with each passing day. Keep your eyes and ears open during your travels, for any who have the heart and courage to become worthy shield-siblings.

"The time for vengeance and regret is drawing to its end, so it is time for us to rebuild and acknowledge what we have gained," he motioned toward me.

The hall was so quiet. I tried to breathe less noisily. Vilkas was winding such a pretty speech together that it was difficult _not_ to feel incredibly nervous about all this build-up.

"You have probably already guessed why I asked Celeste to rise. Farkas, Aela and I have agreed that now is the time for our shield-sister to join us within the Circle," Vilkas proceeded easily.

Of _course_ there was a murmur, and while I didn't meet the murmurer's eyes, I knew who had made it; Vignar always had _something_ to say when it came to the topic of leadership, and he was rarely satisfied unless he could personally gain advantage through appointments. I ignored whatever it was he said, which I didn't properly hear anyway, and tried not to react to what _Vilkas_ had said – _Aela_ had agreed to my joining the Circle? I had assumed that it would simply be a matter of her being outvoted by Vilkas and Farkas. I cast the woman a hasty, curious glance, but her eyes were trained on the assembled Companions; her expression flat, schooled, and unreadable.

"All of you have seen how invaluable she has become, given her responsibilities to the Hold, to meet the day-to-day needs of the Companions. You have been assigned jobs and paid by her over the course of the past moon or so, and this is a job which she will continue to maintain in our absence," Vilkas continued. I shifted my gaze sideways, from Aela to Vilkas, wondering why he was saying all of this. Surely nobody in the room would challenge him openly?

"What you haven't seen," he sighed, casting me a sideways look, "is how she holds herself in battle; how despite her inexperience, she faces challenges that I have seen men twice her size run in fear from. And," his voice modulated slightly, with a trace of amusement evident, to those who knew him, "you have not seen her face a dragon, and absorb its soul."

"And you have?" Vignar was the only Companion to respond; his voice oozing snark.

Vilkas' focus slowly shifted to the old man, and after a weighty pause, he inclined his head. "That I have," he murmured. When Vignar only hmphed a vague sense of disbelief by way of reply, Vilkas returned to his address.

"That she is Thane to the Jarl, and Dragonborn, might mean that she is taken away from us more often than we would like," Vilkas cast me another sideways glance, and I recalled that he had told me he was going to visit the Jarl after his announcement.

I quirked a smile at him. "I would much rather be here, I assure you."

The words bubbled out of me before I had thought about them, and they managed somehow to lighten the air of solemnity that Vilkas had woven. Athis chuckled; Farkas cast me a narrowed glance and a smirk, and the corner of Vilkas' mouth twitched; all I was likely to get out of him in this professional capacity, if he was amused.

"Of that I have no doubt," Vilkas continued, angling his head toward me; his thickly accented tone rumbling and rising. "You have proven your loyalty, and in return we give you ours. I shall forever be honoured to call you sister, whether you are training at Jorrvaskr, singing for the court, or fighting wyrms at the Throat of the World."

I smiled again as the dryness to his words had their intended effect; our audience felt it too, and another chuckle drifted toward us. I didn't see who it was who laughed, and it didn't matter. He had told them; there had been no protests of importance, only the expected grumbling from the expected old goat. I was a member of the Circle.

Vilkas turned back to the others, explaining that while they were away, as the remaining member of the Circle, they were to defer to me for job allocation and payment.

Watching him speak, with the warmth of his words about me lifting my spirits, I was yet again struck by his newfound control. Vilkas had always been so gruff, so on edge, and I wondered if knowing that he was days away from being freed of the beast blood gave him the solace he had been unable to attain when I had first met him? It was very likely, but I was surprised that his inner wolf wasn't putting up more of a fight in sensing that the end was nigh.

Vilkas talked briefly of the journey they were to embark on, advising that they were making a pilgrimage to Ysgramor's tomb in order to keep the promise they had made to Kodlak. He brought the assembly to a close; asking Aela, Farkas and I if we wished to add anything, and when the three of us shook our heads, he dismissed the Companions to their duties.

Most lumbered downstairs, intent on returning to bed I assumed. Aela cast me a somewhat wary, tight-lipped nod, then turned on her heels, cast Vilkas and Farkas a pointed glance, and strode out of the front doors. Vilkas called Tilma over and began talking to her about something to do with their rooms.

Farkas was the only one to step forward and congratulate me, which I found a little startling, as I had not expected to be congratulated.

"Well, you've done it now," he smirked at me with laughter in his tone, before reaching around and encasing me in his enormous arms for a hug. "But, you deserve it," he murmured with a sigh. "And, now you _have_ to stick around, or at least visit us sometimes, between all the dragon slaying."

Surprised, I smiled as Farkas withdrew. I clasped his forearms, meeting his eyes and feeling a little sad, despite his efforts. The sheen caused by the beast blood was reflecting the hearth fire, obscuring much, but I could still see the excitement beyond it in the pale silver. He was excited about their journey, and clearly looking forward to being free of the beast.

"I wish I could go with you to Ysgramor's tomb," I wasn't sure of what else to say. I couldn't promise that I would always be here; everybody knew that I would still need to leave, and soon, to go to the Greybeards. I had delayed for quite a time, now, and on my list of priorities, going to High Hrothgar fell somewhere after the fateful journey I was determined to make to Windhelm.

But for the moment, it was warming to feel, and to _know_ that I belonged.

A snatch of derisive chatter from the side of the mead hall made me falter, and I glanced toward it. Vignar and Brill had retreated there, seating themselves at the table that I had once occupied to sing from, in my early days with the Companions. The pair were muttering in low voices, and it was clear that they were muttering about me.

"Ah," Vilkas' tones reached my ears; he must have noticed my attention on them. He lay a hand on my arm, urging me to turn toward him. "They're like a pair of old women; nothing is good enough, unless they have been consulted first," he murmured; a conspiratorial gleam to his eyes. "Let them have their natter. It keeps them happy," he cast me a half smile.

Again, I returned it, but as I looked up to my shield-brothers, my mind was still on the other two. Would I have trouble from them the moment Farkas, Vilkas and Aela left? Truthfully, my duties were the same as they had been the past few weeks; remain at Jorrvaskr and handle the collection and assignment of jobs. If they hadn't taken umbrage with the role I had adopted before, it would be illogical for them to do so now.

"All will be well," Vilkas clapped my shoulder, releasing it after a squeeze.

"Are we all set, brother?" Farkas asked.

Vilkas nodded. "Almost. I'm bound for Dragonsreach first," his eyes flitted back to me.

"Doubt the Jarl will be awake yet," Farkas drawled with a half-shrug.

The smaller twin shrugged in the same manner. "I'll work something out, if he's not."

Vilkas left after a brief instruction that I should begin training for the day. He passed me the key to the money box, informed me that he would return as soon as he'd spoken to Jarl Balgruuf, and that the accounts book was where it could usually be found.

Farkas remained with me, and I was glad for his company. Once he and Vilkas left, and with Kodlak and Ria both gone, there was none amongst those who remained who I was all that familiar with.

 _Now is the time to change that,_ I told myself as I found my boots, slipped them on, then grabbed the accounts book and money box from their recess next to the door. They were all my shield-siblings, even the largely disagreeable ones, and I promised to make more of an effort to engage with those I barely knew, while the rest of the Circle was away. They had all remained to hear me sing during my performances, so I knew that if all else failed, I could reach out to them that way.

"How is your arm faring, now you're spending so much time lounging about the court in a dress, m'lady?" Farkas asked as we stepped outside into the brusque dawn breeze.

Placing my burdens on the table in their usual spot, I huffed a laugh and cast him a suspicious, sideways glance. I hadn't been training as much as before, but I _had_ still been training a little every day. "It's doing just fine, I assure you," I arched an eyebrow at him.

"Oh yeah?" he grinned, picking up a pair of practise swords from the training rack. "Prove it," he turned back, holding one of the wooden blades out to me.

I gingerly took the offered sword. "Can't I warm up at least?"

"It's Frostfall, sweetheart," Farkas tilted his head at an angle, squinting up to the sky. "The day won't get much warmer than this."

"That's not what I meant," I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I know. I'm stupid, but I'm not _that_ stupid."

"Farkas, you're not _stupid_ ," I emphasised.

"Go on, then," he went on, as though I hadn't interjected. "Ten laps of the training area should get your blood pumping."

"Ugh," I complained at his choice of warm-up exercise, easily falling back into the role of petulant student, and passed the blade back to him, falling into a jog as I descended the stairs to the yard. Farkas observed, arms crossed and practise swords held in a meaty fist, leaning against one of the supports that held up the overhanging roof. While he grinned and appeared to be enjoying himself, he said nothing.

The banter, the jog in the cool of early morning, the impending training – all were serving their purpose as a distraction from what lay ahead, for both me, and for Farkas too, it seemed. The man had always appeared to live life in the now and leave worrying about the future for when it arrived, but perhaps he _was_ worried about Ysgramor's tomb, after all?

Or perhaps he was just killing time before his brother returned from the Jarl.

After several laps I did feel warmer, and wasn't as out of breath as I would have been two months prior; another small win, and one I was a little proud of.

Farkas was still smiling smugly at me as I slowed down on my next pass in front of him. _My fellow Circle member_ , I realised with a jolt.

I held out my hand for one of the blades, eyeing him suspiciously. "Is something amusing?"

Farkas relinquished the sword by the hilt, grinning openly now. "I'm happy," he replied simply, indicating that we move down into the middle of the yard.

I was pleased to hear it, and I laughed warmly at his simple, truthful response. His happiness must have been catching. "About anything in particular, or just, you know, happy like a little puppy?"

Farkas barked a laugh now. "You'll pay for that one," he turned toward me, and fell into his sparring stance.

I stood opposite him and adjusted my footing, arching an eyebrow as I raised my sword. "Is that a challenge, _sir_?"

"It's a warning," he drawled, raising his sword, then bowed his head, adding a mocking, " _m'lady_ ," in an undertone.

"I'll try to remember that," I smirked, ready and waiting for his first strike. Farkas would always attack first, and once we had shuffled to the edge of the training ground, I would fall to attacking, so that we could make our way back across the yard.

"You're all kinds of cocky now, aren't you? Maybe it was a mistake to bring you up to the Circle," Farkas swung. I shuffled backwards and centred my weight, raising my blade in both hands to meet his strike.

I grinned in reply, but didn't answer; my attention now on my feet, my focus, and my form.

–

Farkas had called for us to stop before I had seen Vilkas return, but when his attention shifted to a place beyond and over my head, I knew it must have been because his brother was back from the Jarl.

I lowered my sword, turning in time to see Lydia and Vilkas step into view around Jorrvaskr; Vilkas with Wuuthrad strapped to his back now. They were talking, and as they passed the hidden entrance to the underforge, Lydia laughed.

They seemed at ease; it must have gone well with the Jarl. Grinning, I ran to meet them.

"Good morning," Lydia greeted me, pointedly widening her eyes as I halted before them and slung my training sword grandly through my belt.

"Lazy Lydia," I tutted, nodding to the horizon and the sun climbing higher across the skies. "Since dawn I've been made a member of the Circle _and_ battled my shield-brother into submission – what have _you_ achieved?"

" _What_?" Farkas called out from where he'd remained, in the training yard.

Lydia shook her head and laughed at me, before enveloping me in a hug, ignoring my faux egotism. "I was worried about you last night, little one, and then with your note..." she trailed off. "Anyway," she brightened, squeezing me close. "You are here, and I am pleased to see that you are well."

I refused to let go of my high spirits, or her. I hugged her back, but didn't see any reason to respond.

"She was here the whole time," Vilkas rumbled an assurance to my housecarl.

I caught Vilkas' amused eyes as we parted, and turned to him next, ignoring the way his reply had been wrought to make me sound like a naughty, wayward child. "Did you meet with the Jarl? What did he say?" I couldn't mask my grin, and somewhat wished that I had been there for the announcement, as much as I had enjoyed training with Farkas.

He shook his head. "Farkas was right; he was still abed, and his brother wouldn't wake him for the likes of me," he shrugged. "But, I have left a message with Proventus. He will see that word spreads swiftly of your appointment."

I hesitated, squaring him and sobering slightly. No chance of him talking to the Jarl about our journey _after_ Ysgramor's tomb, then. "And Windhelm?" I asked anyway.

"Let's work out the details when I return," Vilkas replied steadily. "We may be different people by then."

"Windhelm?" Lydia asked swiftly, glancing between us.

I shook my head at her, to signal _not now_.

She crossed her brows, clearly vexed. "I suppose you'll be wanting to say good bye," she sighed, turning to leave. "I'll wait by the Gildergreen. Come find me when you're done here, and...maybe we can have a chat."

"All right," I winced as she left. "Thank you!" I called out belatedly. I would have to tell her about Vilkas' promise to take me to Windhelm, and I knew that she wouldn't like it.

 _You couldn't have snuck away without telling her,_ I told myself dryly. _Better that she knows now._

"Farkas!" Vilkas called out to his brother, who had taken a seat on the verandah stairs when I had left our spar. "It's time we were going. Aela's waiting outside the main gate."

The larger twin rose and said he'd collect their packs, flicking a wave and a wide grin to me. "Don't slack off too much, shield-sister. We'll do this again, when we return."

"It's a date," I called back, laughing when I saw him cross his brows and shake his head as he pushed open the doors to Jorrvaskr, muttering something about a _little brat_.

"Celeste," Vilkas drew my attention back to him, the edge of officiousness to his tone sloughing the giddy bubbles from my amusement. I turned and looked down to his outstretched hand.

I clasped his wrist, as an equal, as it seemed to be what he expected, and met his eyes curiously.

He nodded. "Til next we meet, little dove," he smiled. There was a sadness to his tone, and his use of Kodlak's pet name for me, that made me unexpectedly and all at once tear up.

"Oh, that wasn't fair," I gave him a shaky reprimand of a laugh, then swallowed down the lump in my throat, shifting my grip to squeeze his hand in both of mine.

"Divines, keep you all safe," I added when he only continued smiling in reply. "I wish I was going with you," I told him again, through another wavering laugh. He replied with a chuckle this time, turning his eyes down to the ground; a reserved action that made him seem all at once younger, and more unsure than he was letting on to anyone else.

I was uncertain about their futures, too. I had no idea how far they were going, or what they would encounter. I watched as Vilkas shuffled his feet, and then he looked back up to me. Despite their strength of arm and mind, there was a chance that they would not survive whatever the tomb put in their way.

Vilkas' sad smile fell, and he opened his mouth to speak again; then seemed to reconsider, and closed it.

"What is it?" I urged. I doubled my smile; resolved to think only of their triumphant return, as the alternatives were impossible to consider.

He dropped our clasped hands, and shook his head, at himself it seemed. "I will keep an ear out, for any news of Hadvar," he cast his gaze out, toward the skies over the wall behind the training yard. His tone was casual enough as he added, "The path to Ysgramor's tomb will take us through the Pale."

A gust of icy breeze buffeted against me, and I gripped my arms, reminding myself that I _had_ to maintain hope of Hadvar's triumphant return, as well as my shield-siblings. I could not stay here, safe in Jorrvaskr, if I was to lose them all.

I nodded, to the ground, then made myself look up again. "Thank you," I told him in quiet voice that was carried away by a gust of wind that whistled between us.

His eyes found mine again. "Once I am whole, we will go to Windhelm. Remember that."

Again I nodded, staring up at him; the sheen over his eyes reflecting the clear, pale blue of the morning skies, and beyond the glassiness, his vow, etched onto the silvery orbs. What would it be like to look into his eyes and see them unclouded? Would I know who I saw, once he returned?

Impulsively, I threw my arms around him and pressed my cheek to his breastplate; the steel so cold as to scald my skin. "Be careful, brother," I murmured.

Vilkas held me briefly, before he retreated from our hug. I had felt that he _was_ more tense than he was letting on, and eager to be on his way. He took a step back and cleared his throat. "I will face whatever lies ahead," he told me, or perhaps himself. "And I _will_ return," his eyes shone briefly with a flash of amber, as though the sun had reflected in them for the briefest of seconds.

I nodded. My chest constricted as he took another step away, and raised his hand.

 _A good bye is a happy thing,_ I reminded myself. I forced a smile, and raised my hand in return.

"Keep the books up to date for me, all right?" was his farewell, then he turned, and walked away, past the underforge and around the outer wall of Jorrvaskr, to meet his shield-siblings, and his destiny.

I turned away the moment he was out of sight, taking in a great rush of frigid morning air as a gasp as I stepped toward the verandah, intent on sitting by the accounts book for a time. Perhaps I'd take a cup of tea until I felt less...

What was it that I felt? Fear for my shield-siblings? My deeply burrowed worry for Hadvar? Guilt that I was to remain safe while they all fought? Abandoned?

The moment I sat, I remembered that Lydia was waiting for me at the Gildergreen, and that I might have gone with Vilkas to go meet her! For that matter, I could have seen him and Farkas to the gates if I'd thought about it!

Laughing pitifully at myself – it was too late _now –_ I rose, grasping the key to the money box from the table and throwing the chain around my neck – it wouldn't be wise to leave it lying around.

Wrapping my arms around myself again – it really _was_ freezing this morning – I hurried to the courtyard that encircled the stark, bleached Gildergreen.

Lydia was sitting on the bench seat where I had first met her adopted daughter, with her back straight and hands gripping the edge of the seat as she watched the marketplace with a small frown on her face. When she heard my approach, she turned, and arched an eyebrow.

"Windhelm?" she asked directly.

Sighing, I reached my hand out to her. "Will you come back to Jorrvaskr with me? I have to keep an eye on things there, now that it's...official."

She took my hand, and rose. "You aren't planning on doing what I _think_ you're planning on doing?"

"I probably am," I ascended the broad stairs toward the ship, knowing that she would follow. "But, maybe not. Maybe I'll surprise you yet."

"And you've roped _Vilkas_ into your scheme?" she continued with an edge of disbelief to her voice. Her footsteps landed close behind me. "Why didn't you come to me first?" she added in a lowered tone.

I swallowed, realising what I was hearing in her tone. It wasn't disbelief; Lydia was hurt.

I hadn't expected that. Hesitating, I turned back to her. "You've got it all wrong," I bit my bottom lip and looked away for a moment, toward the glow of the Skyforge. "This isn't something I've been planning. It all happened last night. You were asleep and...I wanted to speak to Kodlak," I explained as I gazed up, to what I could see of the place where his remains were. "Vilkas found me, at Kodlak's desk," I murmured, and felt Lydia shifting closer. She placed a hand on my shoulder, and I realised that I had trailed off and been staring at the warm, orange glow against the grey and blackened stones of the Skyforge.

Glancing back to my housecarl, I forced a small, swift smile. "It was my idea to go to Windhelm. I thought to go by myself, and keep everybody else out of it. I never expected Vilkas to agree with my decision, let alone offer to _take_ me."

Lydia made a tutting sound, but her eyes were kind. "That _stupid_ oaf," she muttered.

I raised my eyebrows; I'd never heard anyone refer to _Vilkas_ as stupid before. "He's going to clear the way with the Jarl, too," I added, more determined, feeling somewhat defensive of him.

"And how do you suppose he will achieve _that_?" Lydia posed smoothly as she dusted my shoulders off, frowning at whatever she saw there, then lowered her hands to her sides again. "Just because you are a member of the Circle now doesn't mean that the Jarl will expect any less-"

"He'll find a way," I cut in with an easy certainty. "I am going to Windhelm, upon Vilkas' return," I told Lydia steadily. "It is the only way to find out what has become of Hadvar, and my sister. I _must_ do this."

Lydia stared through slightly-narrowed eyes at me for a moment. Then she sighed and stepped up beside me, winding her arm around my shoulder. "All right, little one. You're right; we'll find a way, if it is what must be done. It's been an age since I was in _Windhelm_ ," she sighed again, more thoughtfully.

"We?" I glanced up to her. What I had originally thought would be a solo mission was quickly turning into a group expedition. "What about Lucia?" I managed.

"I can be both a mother, and a housecarl, can I not?" she replied, then cast me a sideways smile. "Unless you would _prefer_ me to stay here?"

We fell into step beside one another, continuing our path. I looked around at the empty training yard once we rounded the end of the upturned ship. When exactly _would_ the other Companions rise and start their day? I'd have to check the book and see who was meant to be out on jobs.

"I assumed you would need to remain here," I told her truthfully, delicately, as I drew my attention back to her. "Windhelm will not be safe, and I wouldn't want to rob Lucia of you-"

"And _that_ ," Lydia cut in sternly, "is exactly why I need to come with you."

"Vilkas will watch my back."

"And who will watch your front? And your side? The top of your pretty little head?" she jostled me under her arm.

I laughed at her manner, trying to swat her off. "I'm not _useless_ , Lydia."

She sighed, but it was a happier sigh now. "That you're not. But, rest easy on that account. I _want_ to go with you. I want to look this sister who is pretending to be you in the eye. And, the Jarl will _want_ me to go with you, no matter what you and your shield-brother manage to spin. Lucia will..." she paused, and reconsidered, and smiled. "Have you noticed how the Jarl's children adore her? Dagny, in particular – who would have thought that the key to softening her heart would have been a timid six-year-old?"

I had been so taken up with my own affairs that I _hadn't_ noticed much of what Lucia had been up to, other than that she was happy. "You would trust _Dagny_ to watch out for Lucia?"

"Actually, yes," Lydia laughed at my reaction. "She's not so bad, once you spend some time with her. I think she's just lonely, and a little stifled by her father," she wrinkled her nose at this last.

I laughed softly, understanding _that_ notion entirely, and sauntered up to the table where the accounts book lay, crashing into the seat behind it. "Now I've heard it all."

"Lucia's needs are being met, quite beautifully now," Lydia drew a chair up beside me. " _She_ is not the one I worry about, day and night," she continued, raising her eyebrows at me.

I cast her an uneasy smile, and looked away, busying myself, or at least my hands. I slid the quills out from their recess in the account book's spine, and unstoppered the tiny bottle of ink that accompanied them.

Lydia's hand was on my shoulder, comforting. "You can come to me at any hour," she said in earnest. "The Companions aren't your only Whiterun family, you know," releasing my shoulder, she pat me on the back, then retreated.

My silence was one of, I had to admit, guilt. I _knew_ that I had been taking Lydia for granted, as much as, if not more than I had been taking the Jarl for granted, before I had been effectively grounded by him. Lydia had shown me nothing but kindness, from the moment I had first met her lolling in the entryway of Dragonsreach, and she deserved a better, truer Thane than the likes of _me_.

 _Then be better for her. Say something._

"I know," I replied quietly, glancing sideways at her. "And you _are_ family, Lydia. More so than the only woman remaining in Skyrim who I'm linked to by blood," I muttered, my bitterness too easily surfaced.

"We _will_ get to the bottom of that, Windhelm or no," Lydia spoke up quickly, with confidence. "Which reminds me. Do you have blank paper, and a spare quill? I have some enquiries to make of my own," her lips tilted in an unimpressed manner.

I passed her a few slips of paper from the table, and one of the quills. "If you will be busy writing for a time, I'll get back to my practise," I rose and grasped my bow in one hand as I shouldered my quiver.

Lydia nodded, her focus already on the task before her. "By all means," she murmured.

I watched her write as I adjusted my quiver so it was steady and comfortable. Her head was turned down, and I could see a few tiny braids wound amongst her otherwise free-flowing, ebony tresses. She must have let Lucia at her hair again.

Smiling as I turned away from Lydia, I drew an arrow and nocked it as I approached the stairs, firing at the target as I walked. With a barely-audible _thunk_ the arrow struck the target, one circle away from centre.

Cursing, I drew another, raised my bow, and fired as I descended the staircase, slow and sideways. Another _thunk_. The fletch in the end of the arrow shook as the arrow settled itself into the centre spot. I smiled at it.

The progress I had made with the bow since first joining the Companions never failed to hearten me, for it was proof that I could accomplish anything, so long as I persevered.

I fired at the target again, my breathing slowing. While music was and always would be my calling, firing a bow calmed my mind in a whole different way. I had become accustomed to the feel, the weight of my bow, and from within the clarity called up by marksmanship, I could imagine that someday, I _might_ learn to be a dragon slayer.

If I was honest with myself, I could probably have begun my pilgrimage to the Greybeards that day. Physically, I felt much more confident. But emotionally, I was not ready. I could not abandon all I loved, all those who needed and were relying on _me_ and not the fabled Dragonborn to remain here for the now. I could not leave without _knowing_.

 _Excuses_ , I berated myself again, as I positioned my feet and fired a course of arrows at each of the targets and training dummies. _There will always be something or someone to keep you from fulfilling that duty, so long as the Greybeards are not before you, dragging you to High Hrothgar._

The arrow I had just fired thudded into the leg of the target stand. _I will go,_ I vowed, scowling at the arrow. _I must go. But after I_ _ **know**_ _._

Chances were that if we survived Windhelm, whatever I found there would make me _want_ to shut myself up in a faraway monastery for a time, anyway.

 _Remember; you have to hope that all is not as bad as it seems._

I huffed a dark laugh at myself. It was an easy thing to keep _saying_ I would live in hope, but it was another matter entirely to actually _live_ it.

–

My only visitor that morning had been Irileth, who had summoned me to go to the Jarl _at my next convenience._ I had left Lydia in charge of the accounts book – it didn't matter that she wasn't a Companion, for she had spent enough time with me during my training to know what to do. As I left with the Jarl's housecarl, I began to wonder why Lydia couldn't become a resident of Jorrvaskr herself, either? Vilkas had said that we needed to be on the look out for new recruits. I resolved to propose the notion to her, at a more appropriate time.

The Jarl had congratulated me on my appointment, which had been relayed to him by Proventus during his breakfast. His eyes had shone and he had clasped my hands as he had spoken of my greatness, again, as he was wont to do now and then.

The audience didn't last for long. He requested that I be present for dinner that night so that we could celebrate 'properly', and then dismissed me to my Circle duties, insisting that I take some time to settle into my new role.

As I left him, somewhat bemused that he had been so thrilled, with a sudden clarity, I realised why he had reacted so. As though I was a tree, each new accolade that serve to help me grow also pushed my roots down further, more firmly set into Whiterun soil. He was pleased because it meant I was more likely to call Whiterun home, if not already, then someday.

I squinted my eyes against the bright sunlight as I exited Dragonsreach and my gaze came to rest on the barren, windswept, almost bittersweet Gildergreen.

 _Perhaps comparing yourself to a tree was not an appropriate analogy,_ I shuddered.

–

That night after dinner at Dragonsreach, I had returned to Jorrvaskr with my lute strapped over my shoulder, intent on playing for my fellow Companions. I was met by Tilma before I could begin, and the elderly housekeeper advised me that my room had been made ready for me, should I wish to view it.

I crossed my brows. "Room?"

"Yes, dear," she smiled patiently; the papery skin around her lips crinkling as she did. "You are part of the Circle. It won't do to have you sleeping and bathing with the others now, will it?"

"Oh," I shook myself out of my confusion, wondering if this is what Vilkas had been talking to her about that morning, after the announcement. I had little need of yet _another_ room in Whiterun, and if my mental map of Jorrvaskr was correct, there were only two rooms recently made spare in the building. I wasn't certain that I wanted to take Skjor's room, particularly with it being opposite Aela's, and taking Kodlak's was...well, it was _Kodlak's_ room. I doubted even that as our new Harbinger, Vilkas would want to relocate to it.

Tilma motioned for me to follow her. "Don't look so frightened, dear. If you don't like it, you don't have to sleep there."

"I'm not frightened," I hurried after her, realising that I was being ungrateful, and tried to make amends. "I'm sure it will be lovely. I simply...didn't expect to be given a room."

"All members of the Circle need a space in Jorrvaskr to call their own," Tilma led me down the stairs. "Whether it becomes dusty and disused or home to all of your most treasured objects is beside the point. It's tradition," she finished, somewhat tenaciously.

"Well," I replied quietly, uncertain of what to say. "I'm very grateful for the gesture," I supplied.

"It is my pleasure, dear. It is clean, and ready for a fashionable young mind to put her claim on it," Tilma's voice eased, and she was once again all kindly grandmother. "Or you might want to leave it as it is. You will make it your own, over time, I suspect."

As though her words hadn't already confirmed what I feared, it was with a sense of both relief and dread that Tilma continued walking beyond the hallway that led to Skjor's old room. That left only one place they could put me.

They _did_ expect me to take Kodlak's room for my own.

My eyes lingered on the table outside of the doorway, and specifically on the closed journal resting there. _You wanted a way to be closer to Kodlak,_ I thought bleakly.

Tilma stopped before the door, and muttered, "Now. Where is that key?"

She began to search the pockets in her apron.

 _The key_ , I remembered with a thud. The key that Kodlak had passed me himself, moments before the Silver Hand had descended upon Jorrvaskr. He had ordered me to go, and when I had refused, he had insisted that I lock myself in his room and handed me his key.

Those had been the last words he had spoken to me. And now, his key _was_ to be mine.

I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. My control was already stretched thin, and this deed, this reminder of that horrible evening, shook at the thin barrier like a howling thunderstorm against the last leaf on a tree.

 _We're back to being a tree? Focus,_ I commanded myself. I _had_ to allow for logic to rule or I would crumble. Being given the Harbinger's quarters was a great privilege, given that I was not Harbinger! There was no point in turning Kodlak's room into a shrine unto his memory. Doing so would be a degradation; he would not have wished it, and it would prevent the Companions from moving forward, as Vilkas had mentioned in his...

 _Oh,_ I realised, opening my eyes as Tilma found the key and passed it to me.

"Here it is. You may do the honours, my dear," she smiled kindly. "Mind what I said earlier, though. It is clean, but there isn't much else to it."

I stared down at the small, simple iron key in my open palm. Vilkas had asked Tilma to ready Kodlak's room for me. Despite the unparalleled depth of their kinship, and his right to the room as our next leader, instead of taking the Harbinger's room for himself, he had opted to remain where he was. Why?

 _Perhaps he feels as you do, and was uneasy about moving to Kodlak's room._

Perhaps. But I doubted it. If Vilkas had thought the room would make me uncomfortable, he would have taken it for himself in a heartbeat. It was more likely that he thought of it being appropriate _because_ he had found me lingering outside of the room the previous night, distracting myself with Kodlak's memories. Perhaps this was all part of _moving forward._

Tilma was still speaking. "I do understand that this might be difficult for you, dear, but Master Whitemane had quite the soft spot for you. I am sure that he would have wanted it this way."

"Thank you," I whipped my head up to her, realising that I hadn't spoken for some time. Stepping forward and turning the key in the lock hastily, I murmured an additional, "I am sure that you are right."

The door opened without a creak, sliding smoothly over the flagstones. There was a warm glow within.

"There now. Well dear, I shall leave you to it," Tilma sighed, turning to leave. "If you would like to make it your own, you just give me a list of what you need. Take all the time you like," she added.

I thanked her again, and for a moment watched her departing along the hallway. She was distracted by a cluttered bookshelf at the end of it, and set about tidying it.

Turning back to look into Kodlak's – _my_ – room, I delayed no further, and stepped within.

My first impression brought me some relief; it did not look like a room that belonged to my former Harbinger. If anything, it was exceedingly generic and simple. It must have been Tilma's doing, and I was grateful for her discretion.

Lanterns had been lit and sat fluttering on a tall, dark iron stand in the far corner of the room, and beside that stood a bookshelf with drawers long its base. The shelves were empty, but for a white ceramic bowl and jug, used for washing. The double bed, dressed in crisp ivory sheets, sea-blue woollen blankets and plump pillows took up the majority of the room. It stood on a large, burgundy rug woven with amber thread, flanked by a small bedside table and with a chest at its end. The only wall furnishings were a couple of tapestries either side of the bed, similar to those that adorned the mead hall's high ceilings; all reds and golds, with an image of Wuuthrad embroidered in the middle.

Unstrapping my lute, I set it carefully on top of the chest, and then sat on the side of the bed, glancing between the clean, simple room, and the key in my palm. Momentarily, obscurely, I regretted the blank-canvas nature of it after all. I acknowledged that I had hoped, as much as I had feared, that it _would_ remind me of Kodlak.

Huffing a sigh at myself, because there was apparently no pleasing me, I flopped back onto the bed, letting my legs dangle over the edge, and stared at the ceiling. The wooden support beams criss-crossed the stone roof, and a traditional horned chandelier hung from its centre, also lit, the little flames washing the ceiling with dancing light and shadows.

For a time I just lay there, trying to push thoughts from my mind as they entered to rouse or torment me. Eventually though, I began to feel cold. I rose, and decided that it was time, finally, for bed. I had not slept for two days now, owing to my being unable to rest the previous night. Lydia knew that I meant to stay in Jorrvaskr tonight, though I had assumed I would sleep in the whelps' room, but nevertheless, there was no need to send her a note.

On impulse, I ducked out of Kodlak's room to grab his journal from the table, then returned to the new room, locking the door behind me. I had no night clothes with me, but I had bathed before dinner. I extinguished the lanterns in the corner of the room, but left the chandelier lit so I could read, then threw off my overdress, ducking under the blankets and sheets in the undershirt and leggings I had worn that evening.

I lay on my side, resting on my elbow as I flicked through Kodlak's journal to find my place.

 _The room could use some plants,_ I thought idly. _And maybe somewhere nice to display my lute, when I'm not using it. A cabinet, or even mount on the wall would suffice._

Again, I shook my head at myself. Was I honestly considering moving in? I now had _three_ rooms in Whiterun; and this one, unlike the other two, was _asking_ to be given a personality.

Another thought presented itself; was I going to be spending much time here? I would get a week, at most, out of it. A week, Vilkas had said, and they would be returned, and we would be leaving for Windhelm.

 _And then, High Hrothgar,_ I prompted myself.

I shuddered at the thought, perhaps out of habit, but there was no dread behind it now, for the first time since the Greybeards had called for me. I felt only a sense of dull futility, but it wasn't because of what might be waiting for me there. By the time I left for High Hrothgar, I would know the truth about Hadvar and Giselle.

I found my place in the journal. Shoving all else from my mind, I read for as long as my eyes would remain open. It wasn't long.

–

Days passed, and I worked hard to distract myself from thoughts of my friends and family. My schedule shuffled and I adjusted accordingly, into a more relaxed routine. I spent my days at Jorrvaskr training and managing the accounts, sweeping into Dragonsreach once the sun had set, with time enough to bathe and dress for dinner. Once the Jarl had dismissed me for the night, I would return to the mead hall to play and sing for my shield-siblings, and for myself. Then, I would retire to my new quarters, with Kodlak's journal in my arms, and read until I fell asleep.

My hope to get to know the Companions who remained in Jorrvaskr was a work in progress, but I was slowly finding my way. Athis had been the easiest to start a rapport with, and I found my first opportunity with him on the third day after the Circle had left.

"It was horrible," Athis crashed into the chair opposite me, leaning back and stretching his legs out so that his feet rested on the table between us. "The woman was insufferable, droning on about the state her cabbages would be in when she got home. Who kidnaps a _farmer_ for ransom? It's not like they are drowning in money," he droned casually, inspecting his fingernails.

I arched an eyebrow at him but said nothing, marking his job down at complete and counting out his gold.

"Why not kidnap a nobleman's son, hmm? Give me someone pleasant to look at on the journey home, at least," he continued.

"Hmm," I tried not to sound amused, but I couldn't help it. "I suspect noble's sons are a little more difficult to kidnap, what with their hired bodyguards. It sounds like the bandits were after easy money," I held his cut of the payment out to him.

"Yeah, well," Athis scoffed, then removed his feet from the table to sit up properly and accept it. He tossed the little coin purse into the air once, catching it with a grin. "Lot of good it did them in the end. They don't have the arms to be trying _that_ again."

"I'm glad to hear your mission was a success," I smiled up at him, trying to divert him before he told me any more about _how_ he had dealt with the bandits. "Her husband was completely distraught when he came in yesterday."

"Husband, you say?" Athis leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and arching an eyebrow. "Tell me more."

Laughing, I rolled my eyes. "Yes, _husband._ Down boy."

Leaning back in the chair with a grin to the roof, he sighed. "Ah, you're right. Might end up inadvertently challenging that wild boar of a wife of his to a duel, and," he shook his head, "she'd talk my ears off until they bled, before I landed a punch."

 _Hand to hand combat,_ his words reminded me suddenly of his speciality. _I could do that._

Wanting to change the course of conversation, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "So. Back from an insufferable job. What's next for you, Athis?"

The Dunmer shrugged. "Any more contracts about? They day is young."

"Well," I glanced down at the accounts book. Did I want to learn hand-to-hand combat? Was there any point in it? I couldn't exactly run across the plains and punch a dragon, could I?

 _Regardless,_ I convinced myself. _It will give you some time to get to know him._

"I have a job for you, if you're interested," I looked up, wondering suddenly if he'd find the idea of training me 'insufferable'. I would have to make it worth his while.

"Oh?"

I closed the accounts book, and sat back in my chair, observing him. "How would you like to make a quick 100 gold?"

"Depends on the job," he murmured dryly.

I smiled. "I'll pay you 100 septims to teach me some hand-to-hand basics."

" _You_?" Athis eyed me up and down where I sat.

"Yes, _me_ ," I retorted, meeting his garnet eyes. "I would like to learn, if you would teach me."

He seemed baffled into silence for a moment, before he uttered, "And, you'll _pay_ me to teach you?"

"That's what I said," I replied loftily, rising and motioning toward the training yard.

Athis hesitated for only a moment longer, before he shrugged, and stood, and came out to meet me.

We began to train, though there was no set time or even day, as he was away from Jorrvaskr often on contracts. He took my 100 gold for the first few sessions, and on the fourth session, waved me away when I made to pay him, chuckling and scoffing that it was a bit insulting for him to keep accepting it. The matter of payment didn't arise again.

Athis was more graceful in his motions than I had known he could be, and he taught me how to kick and punch in a way that focused on balance, allowing me to throw my weight into my strikes, so that having a blade wouldn't matter. He told me that, over time, _I_ could become the only weapon I would ever need, though I had stared down at myself and laughed when he had told me this – it was difficult to consider myself as a weapon.

He was a _very_ different teacher to Farkas, Vilkas and even Aela, though my time with her had been fleeting. Athis was far less strict and intense, and I felt no real sense of authority from him. Everything about our sessions was casual, and I supposed that this was what it was to train with a Companion who _wasn't_ a werewolf.

That was what I thought until I started training with Njada, at least.

Coming up on the end of the week since the Circle had left, Athis and I were training in the yard. It was about an hour past noon, and the day was dry and cold, as had all of the days that week been. Snow was expected that night.

"Why are you teaching her the _dragon,_ you idiot?" Njada surprised us both, calling out from the verandah.

Athis held up his hand for me to stop as his attention snapped to the Nord woman. "Who do you think she'll be fighting out there, hmm?"

I glanced at the fierce woman, wondering why she was taking any interest in us to begin with; everyone had been ignoring our sessions until now. She was seated in the shadows, on one of the bench seats that ran along side the verandah, holding a bottle of ale.

She looked unimpressed. "The names are figurative," she drawled. "If she tries to dragon-punch a dragon, she's going to get fried."

"I don't plan on trying to anything-punch a dragon," I murmured jokingly with a sideways glance at Athis.

Athis panted a little, placing his hands on his hips and squinting at the sun. "You're an expert in fighting dragons now, are you?" he asked the woman.

Njada snorted. "And you are?"

It was clear these two knew how to push each other's buttons; I could see Athis pinking under his dark skin. He indicated me swiftly, but still addressed Njada. "The girl wants to know how to fight, so I'm teaching her-"

"-how to get smashed, I can see that," Njada finished stonily, rising and walking toward us; her steps lazy.

"Speaking of which," Athis rolled his eyes, huffing as she drew to a halt before us.

She pointed toward me with the ale in her hand, and I wondered if I should remind _both_ of them that I didn't appreciate being talked at.

Gratefully, she spoke _to_ me. "He's teaching you to hit, sure, but he's using _his_ technique, _which is_ ," she added quickly with a pointed glance at Athis as he tried to interject, "based on the assumption that one hit will be all it takes to floor his opponent."

"That's _not_ what I assume," Athis grated loftily, crossing his arms. "And, there is nothing wrong with a strong, confident offence-" he shrugged, addressing the last to me.

"Only, there is," Njada cut in with a smirk, "when you have no plan by way of defence to counter opponents with," she raised an eyebrow at Athis pointedly. "If you hit someone, they are going to hit back, you know."

"I see," Athis drawled loftily, sarcastically, sweeping down into an elaborate bow. "Then pray, teach both of us how to fight, o' wise one."

" _I'd_ teach you to block first," Njada crossed her arms, her narrowed eyes looking me up and down in assessment. "Your best chance will be to block whatever's thrown at you, kick 'em in the balls, and run away."

" _Run away_!" Athis scoffed. "Where is Njada, and what have you done with her?"

The Nord snapped her attention to him. "I said _her_ best chance. Training the Dragonborn isn't about teaching her how _you_ would approach things."

"So you'd have Celeste kick a dragon in the balls-"

"If it was that or die, _yes_!"

I wondered how long they would continue before they began brawling, and took a step back, hoping that I could escape unnoticed while they battled it out.

But then I remembered that I was a member of the Circle, and that besides not wanting my shield-siblings to brain each other because I was trying to become better friends with them, it wouldn't be good for business if two of the remaining, most active members were out of action over a petty dispute. They were both scheduled to leave on contracts in the morning, and I didn't want to have to try and convince _Torvar_ to fulfil them both.

"All right," I stepped forward, between them, laughing a little and holding out my hands; one to each of them. "I get it. There's a really simple way to settle this," I turned to look Njada in the eye, for the first time. There were several vertical scars running the length of her left cheek, and her fierce amber eyes were lined with dark kohl. In them, I saw only her indefatigable guardedness.

I made myself smile. "Teach me?"

"But _I'm_ teaching you," Athis grumbled.

"Both of you," I flicked the Dunmer a glance, maintaining my hopeful smile. "I knew nothing when I came to the Companions, and I am willing to learn whatever both of you will impart upon me."

Njada seemed just as wary as ever, so I added a hasty, "I can pay you, of course-"

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered, "Companions don't _charge_ each other for training."

Athis coughed and somewhat withdrew as Njada turned more fully toward me, and held out her hand. "I think I can teach you a trick or two, shield-sister."

I grasped her hand and shook on it; surprised when her handshake didn't crush my fingers, for I had half expected it to. "Great."

"If you're occupied for the afternoon then, I might," Athis cleared his throat. He motioned toward the mead hall, and chose not to finish his sentence.

I nodded. "Thanks for today. Same time tomorrow, after you get back?"

"Sure, sure," he bounded up the stairs hastily and disappeared inside.

Njada huffed. "The man knows when he's beat," she remarked dryly. "All right," she changed her tone, becoming louder and more purposeful all at once. "Let's take a look at you."

I hid the smile that had risen over Athis' swift departure; he'd simply not wanted Njada to learn that I _had_ paid him to teach me. But under my latest teacher's guidance, it wasn't long before all thoughts of the instructor I'd been learning from an hour ago, or anyone else for that matter, were cast from my mind entirely.

Njada's teaching style could be compared to that of an army general, or at least, what I expected of one; curt, simple, repetitive, and with no room for error. I had to concentrate; _really_ concentrate on the stances, arm and leg movements she showed me. I would shadow her for several iterations, and then she would stand back and observe as I repeated the forms again and again and again, until eventually, as the sun was setting, I excused myself and rushed to Dragonsreach to prepare for dinner. Training with both Athis and Njada was going to be demanding, but a large part of me felt a little excited by the challenge.

When I retreated to my room in Jorrvaskr after my nightly performance, ready for some reading before bed, there were a new pair of arm bracers on the bedside table next to Kodlak's journal, and a coin purse.

I lifted my lute off my shoulders, frowning down at the bracers, and picked one up, inspecting it. They were brand new, made of a stained leather and with the price still tied to one of the tiny golden buckles.

Turning the little tag over, I realised that it wasn't the price tag, but a _gift_ tag.

 _Punch them in the balls,_ it read.

Snorting with laughter, I realised who the bracers, and the coin purse, were from. The warm amusement stayed with me as I read over the next passage in Kodlak's journal, and when I decided to go to sleep, it was with a flutter of excitement that I realised a week had passed since Farkas, Vilkas and Aela had left, and that they might step into Jorrvaskr at any moment.

Assuring myself that _somebody_ would wake me if they did, I drifted off feeling bright with the hope that I had been convincing myself to believe in since Erthos had returned with the General's letter.

–

It snowed that night, as had been expected. The Circle returned with it, but nobody woke me.

The first I knew of their arrival was the next morning, when I trudged upstairs to take breakfast, and spied a familiar red-haired warrior woman sitting alone at the mead hall table, staring into the flames of the hearth.

"Aela!" I squeaked; my eyes widening as I rushed toward her, forgetting, or dismissing, the animosity that had always existed between us.

The Nord's eyes remained fixed on the flames, but I heard her sigh as I halted next to her.

"Is Kodlak's-?"

"Yes," she cut me off coldly. "It is done, and he has gone to Sovngarde."

I breathed a sigh of relief, glancing up and laughing to the ceiling. All his research, all their hard work – it had _worked_. The cure had _worked_.

"And the twins?" I glanced back down hurriedly. "Did they-?"

The sound of wood scraping against flagstones cut me off this time as Aela pushed her chair back and rose, finally turning to look at me. "Kodlak named you Harbinger."

I stared up at the woman, my mouth still half-open, frozen in the form of what I had been about to say. Was she... _joking_? Why? Why would she joke about such a thing?

Her green eyes, still with their golden sheen confirming what I had known; she would _not_ cure herself; bore into my soul, accusing as I had ever perceived them. Heat radiated from her form; the fire of anger, resonating deep within her.

This was wrong. Their return was supposed to be a happy moment. We had all been looking forward to it! In the silence that lengthened between us, I pinched my arm, to make sure that I was not stuck in some bizarre nightmare.

"How did you do it?" her tone was quiet, and a little...hurt? I flinched at her words, and she didn't wait for me to respond. "And _why_ did you enrapture their wolves? Is it a game to you? You'll _never_ stay with us and it will _destroy_ them. Is that what you want?"

I closed my mouth, unable to summon words to answer her with. What had _happened_ at Ysgramor's tomb?

"Kodlak knew you would leave, too," Aela continued, her voice rising as she progressed. "So why – _why_ would he name _you_ as his successor?"

"I have no idea," I snapped, finally finding my voice, and shook my head with vehemence. "And you are wrong. _Vilkas_ is Harbinger."

" _Vilkas_ will bow down on one knee to you, just like the rest of them will," Aela snorted, turning away and making to leave.

"Where is he?" I called out desperately after her. "Are they cured-?"

"Ask them yourself," she cut me off for a final time, before sweeping out of Jorrvaskr.

I told myself that it was the wind that slammed the door behind her.

I jumped at the sound, and the startle spurred me into action. Forgetting breakfast, I dashed downstairs.

This _must_ have been Aela's idea of a joke, I kept telling myself, all the way to Vilkas' room. Farkas and Vilkas would be in their rooms, possibly even asleep, and Vilkas would laugh when I told him what Aela had said. Maybe this was how they welcomed new members to the Circle.

I rapped against the wooden door urgently. "Are you awake?" I called trying the handle.

I heard shuffling from within, and after a moment, heard a key turn in the lock. A moment later, Vilkas drew the door back slowly, his dark hair falling over his face.

He did not appear to be in a joking mood, either. "Is it true?" I dispensed with the pleasantries as sharp panic assailed me. I clasped my hands together to keep from fidgeting. My mind raced; I couldn't be _Harbinger_ to the _Companions_ – I had no _idea_ what was involved, and I could not remain at Jorrvaskr much longer, regardless of where I wanted to be.

Vilkas lifted his head, pushing his hair back out of his eyes with a hand as he sighed wearily. He met my gaze; his silvery eyes full of shame, and still bearing that otherworldly sheen that I had never expected to see again.

He said nothing; just held my gaze for a moment, not needing to tell me that things had not gone as planned. It was writ all over his face. He was still a werewolf.

Unconsciously, my hand flew to my mouth to mute my gasp. A thousand questions entered my mind. Had it only worked for Kodlak? Was he stuck this way until he died? Had he chosen not to cure himself for some reason?

"Oh _Vilkas_ ," was all I could whisper, in fear and horror. My hand shook as I reached for him, without realising that I was doing it.

He watched my hand for a moment, but before my fingertips could brush his cheek he looked away, cleared his throat and stepped back, opening the door wide to me. "You had better come in," he murmured.

I nodded and took a step toward him. He met my eyes fleetingly as he added, in a quiet tone; "Harbinger."

* * *

 _A/n: I always found it frustrating that the player character was named Harbinger when it was clear who should have been.  
So sorry for the huge delay. Work is hectic. It may be another month or two before I can update again unfortunately. Hope you're still with me because I would much rather be writing this, I assure you! _


	36. Keep It Together

_Chapter 36: Keep It Together_

"Don't call me that," I mumbled as I stepped past Vilkas.

He replied with a humourless sound that passed for a laugh, under the circumstances. "Don't be like that. Kodlak had his reasons and this is no-"

"That's not why I'm here," I cut in and rounded on him. There was simply no question of my becoming Harbinger to the Companions. Everybody knew that I was leaving soon, probably forever. Kodlak naming me Harbinger only threw that reality into sharper relief.

 _Why did you enrapture their wolves? Is it a game to you? You'll never stay with us and it will destroy them. Is that what you want?_

Aela's accusation provoked me anew as I watched my shield-brother closely, daring him to call me _Harbinger_ again. I felt stretched thin and helplessly wild.

Of course he could sense how on edge I was. He sighed, closed the door and leant against it, regarding me with solemn eyes. "This is not all as bad as you think," he assured quietly.

 _Not_ as _bad_? He was still a werewolf! How could he accept this - any of this? And why had _he_ not been named Harbinger, as he deserved?

I had expected anger from Vilkas - or _something_ other than this _damnable_ tolerance. My fleeting frustration dissolved; in it's place rose the inexplicable urge to burst into tears. _My poor, tormented brothers. What happened to you? Why are you still cursed?_

"Yes. It's okay. I mean," I shuddered, making for a chair on the left wall. My words felt thick in my throat; sounded sadder and shakier than I hoped. "It _will_ be okay. We'll...keep searching," I posed, closing my fingers around the top of the chair. "Find some other way to cure you and Farkas," I added quietly; watching as my knuckles turned white as my grip tightened.

 _Keep it together. They're alive._

"The cure works," Vilkas rumbled. His footsteps drew nearer.

I closed my eyes. _There will be a reason_ , I schooled my irrational, flighty panic, but the sliver of hope I had held onto; the twins had not remained werewolves by _choice_ ; was dashed. _Keep it together._

"What happened?" I managed.

Wood scraped against stone; Vilkas shifted a chair. "Take a seat," he urged.

I nodded. Yes, I would sit, and Vilkas would explain.

"Please," he added.

I opened my eyes, realising that I had acknowledged but hadn't moved. My eyes focussed on my shield-brother. Vilkas was seated in the other chair, his hands resting in fists on his knees, his face turned up and his eyes on me, waiting expectantly; hopefully.

In a swift, too-nervous action, I sat, folding my hands together; an illusion of calm. A torturous silence settled and lengthened between us, and I wondered what Vilkas was waiting for.

After what felt like hours of silence, I realised he must have expected me to begin.

"Aela told me that you freed Kodlak-" I could bare the tension no longer.

Vilkas groaned and leant forward to press both palms to his forehead. "No wonder you are so frightened of me," he muttered as he sat up and ran agitated hands through his hair. " _Aela_ broke the news," he grated through his teeth.

I sat back; crossed my brows. Well, that explained his silence; he was trying not to _scare_ me further. "I'm not frightened _of_ you, Vilkas," I murmured quietly. "I never will be," I reminded. "I'm frightened _for_ you."

He sat back and shook his head, confused. "I thought you were scared and ashamed of my weakness, but you're not, are you? You're..." he huffed an incredulous laugh; his wariness was swept away by it. "You are _worried_ about me?"

"Of _course_ I am," I hissed, ruffled by his sudden ease. "You went to Ysgramor's tomb to cure yourselves, and have returned to Whiterun with the beast blood still coursing through your veins," I flashed him a hard glance. "And _you_ think it's _funny_?"

"I am not laughing, I swear to you," Vilkas held his hands out; a placating motion.

An amusement to his tone sent a burst of white-hot rage surging through me.

Vilkas of course _smelled_ my fury; his eyes widened and he reached out to take both of my hands in his. "Calm yourself, sister," he lilted soothingly.

"I am calm," I hushed; a low tone that didn't fool either of us. "But I wish you would hurry up and explain yourself, _brother_ ," I murmured pointedly.

"I will," the last trace of amusement left him, to be replaced by the serious, officious mask that I knew so well.

"Have you learned from Kodlak's journal what he believed you are to us?" he began with a question.

I blinked. _So it's true. They are still werewolves because of me._ I shook my head, unable to trust my voice; either I would burst into tears, or I would snap at him.

"Ah, well," he let go of my hands to sit back and address the ceiling fondly. "Leaving that to me as well, are you, Master?"

"Vilkas," I bit out quickly before he lost focus. I had been reading a little further into Kodlak's journal each night, but I had come across only idle mentions of myself within; recollections of performances and their soothing effect, and my progress in my early days with the Companions, amongst Kodlak's more involved research into the cure.

But, _Aela_ had hinted at what had happened, hadn't she?

"Your wolves won't leave, because of something I've done, is that it?" I asked carefully.

Vilkas half-shrugged. I was surprised that he seemed unaffected that I knew this much. "I wouldn't say it's something you've _done_ , not...consciously..."

I waited, watchful, and after a moment he buried his face in his palms once more.

"Why is this so hard?" he groaned into his hands. "This is going to sound terrible."

"I can bear it, as can you," I replied as steadily as I could manage. "Just - tell me. I need to know how to help you, and if I'm hindering your plight-" I implored.

"No," he cut in. "Don't say that. You saved us," with a deep sigh, he sat up; smoothed his hair back from his forehead. "You hinder nothing. I'll tell you," he fixed me with an apologetic expression, before muttering with a rush of defeated air; "All right. Kodlak said he should have realised when he first saw you in his dream..."

I maintained Vilkas' gaze but wracked my brain for the relevant passage from our Harbinger's journal. Vilkas waited; I assumed he required a response; confirmation that I recalled the relevant portion. "In his vision, I stayed your hands and kept you from attacking his wolf, then I held my hand out to him. Why should that stop you from curing _yourselves_?"

Vilkas frowned, tilting his head. "By...controlling the will of a werewolf...?" he continued uncertainly, glancing over me with wide eyes. He murmured; "You truly know _nothing_ of it? How...is that _possible_? Don't you _feel_ it-?"

I straightened in my seat, acutely uncomfortable by his intensity; by what he seemed to expect me to intrinsically understand. Obtusely, I realised that I _wanted_ to feel what he spoke of if it would help me save them. "I know that my music quiets your beasts. We have spoken of this, Vilkas," I added crossly. "Can you just tell me what I need to know, without all this," I searched for a word, settling finally on, "anticipation?"

"All right," Vilkas raised his eyebrows, looking away swiftly. "I am no bard, but I will tell you as simply as I know how. Lycanthropes serve Hircine, in life and in death, yes?" he flicked me a glance.

I nodded. The speed at which he had shifted from one sentence to another told me he was now on the roll he needed to be on to get this out; I just had to listen.

"During his research, Kodlak found a book - an account by a werewolf who could control his beast through the disciplined suppression of his urges and by ensuring that his hunger was assuaged before the time of change," Vilkas' focus drifted to the flagstones, but he seemed to look at nothing. "The control brought him inner peace that, once realised, he strived to teach to other werewolves that he liberated," he shrugged helplessly and huffed, dragging his eyes upward, to meet mine. "He grew to love what he had once seen as a curse; calling it a gift, and appreciating it for what it had given him; better sight, hearing and smell, through which he could drink in the full bounty of nature's wonders."

Again, I nodded for him to go on. It was certainly interesting, but it did not tell me what I wanted to know.

Vilkas returned my nod and proceeded. "In renouncing the hunt and training his beast to not _want_ it, he had denied the purpose for which Hircine had first created werewolves. In a way, this severed the wolf, spiritually, from Hircine's dominance, during the man's lifetime. During death of course," Vilkas drawled, ironic suddenly, "he was as doomed as the rest of us are."

I bit my bottom lip; he wasn't _doomed_. He could be cured. He clearly still _wanted_ to be cured. _Why didn't he cure himself?_

 _Listen,_ I commanded.

Vilkas sat back, breathing a long exhale as he regarded me speculatively. "When Kodlak, Farkas and I swore to suppress the beast, it was...not easy," he admitted warily. "There was no glory of nature or inner peace to be found. I can't speak much for Kodlak or my brother and their war with their beasts. Kodlak kept much to himself while he was there for me, and Farkas...is not the type to put his struggle into words," Vilkas raised his eyebrows. "We each found our own way to cope," he frowned again.

Another pause; another faraway stare. Vilkas closed his eyes; suppressed a shudder.

"What did you experience?" I asked quietly to move him forward.

After a breath; "It is...difficult to explain," he raked a hand through his inky hair; a frustrated motion. "Days and nights have always...blurred, since I took the blood, but when I denied my wolf the days...slowed down," he searched; shook his head, irritated. "I felt every second of every minute, of every hour, acutely. Time would mock me, refusing to pass, trapping me in my own head as I begged the next second to come, and then the next, and the next. Tension, anxiety, a propensity to lose my temper far easier than before," he raised his eyebrows at this, "and, my head buzzed, _ceaselessly_. The beast was furious, snarling and butting up against my forehead wherever I turned, demanding that I acknowledge it instead of seeing what was truly before me."

It sounded horrible. I reached forward, touching his knee gently; my offering of wordless comfort. Vilkas' eyes shifted; from staring at nothing, to where my hand lay.

"But you are stronger than it. You learned to control it," I reminded him softly.

"No," Vilkas looked away. "There was no relief, until...you arrived," his eyes flickered up, wary and uncertain.

I smiled sadly and squeezed his knee. "All right. I arrived, and my songs calmed your beast. I'm _glad_ , Vilkas. Really," I added hastily, when he half-laughed and glanced down. I ducked, trying to make eye contact. "I _am_ pleased that music helped ease your suffering, and helped you _all_ see a way forward through the chaos."

"But it's not your music," he looked up under his lashes. "It's you," he growled. "Something about _you_ ," he added quickly, resting a large hand over mine; tentative as though afraid that both his touch and admission would make me flee. "Kodlak believed it was because you are dragonborn," he murmured, turning my hand slowly in his, inspecting it. He frowned at my palm as his other hand drifted to rest beside it, and his eyes flickered between the two, searching for something in our hands.

I _had_ read of what he spoke, in a way, I realised. Kodlak had written of some...subconscious hold that I had over the twins. Had I been meant to take more from that throwaway line than I had?

"Kodlak reasoned," Vilkas paused. He traced a line on my palm softly as he continued. "He reasoned that we had struggled with our vow because, like the werewolf we had read of, we had suppressed the hunt. We had denied our wolves access to Hircine, but we had not filled the void with the serenity of solitude, as the one we hoped to emulate had. Our wolves were far from sated; they were lost and hungry, and that made them furious. It was like we had caged them, and were teasing them. They wanted to run with their master and feed, and wanted Hircine to guide them. With no access to its master, the werewolf we had read about had found nature; almost worshipped it. Denied Hircine, desperate for purpose, our wolves gravitated toward a different solace, when she appeared. And who better, than a dove with the soul of a dragon to tame the beasts?" he asked reverently.

I closed my eyes, unwittingly shuddering as Vilkas continued to inspect my hand. I had understood that they had found my presence soothing from Kodlak's admissions, but I truly had known nothing of _this_. He was comparing the role of Dragonborn to the likes of the _Daedric Princes_.

"After Kodlak realised what had happened to us, or our wolves, he said it was why Aela and Skjor reacted the way that they did to you," Vilkas went on. "Because they had _not_ given up the hunt. Your presence was an offence to their wolves' master; a challenge to Hircine," he continued more gruffly. "But instead of luring you away and killing you, they saw a strength in you that had tamed us, and tried to turn you into one of them. If you were serving Hircine, Skjor and Aela thought that we would follow you back to the pack."

It was easier to think and speak with my eyes closed so I kept them shut as I found my voice. "Vilkas, even if what you say is true, it doesn't explain why you didn't cure yourselves. You would have been freed of both Hircine's, and..." I swallowed, not wanting to say _my_ ; "...the _dragon's_ influences, in both life _and_ death."

"If it helps," I felt Vilkas shifting, and then he let go of my hand. "I didn't truly understand Kodlak's theory either, until we travelled to Ysgramor's tomb."

My eyes flashed open. _If it helped_? "Tell me what happened at the tomb."

"Well. It was _during_ the journey, I suppose," he raised his eyebrows, sitting back more comfortably and crossing his arms. "As we travelled north, the wolf began to protest," he shrugged. "I had expected as much, but...the anger, the fury, and the urge to shift grew stronger the further we journeyed from Whiterun. The further I took it away from you," he met my eyes fleetingly, then dropped his gaze hastily.

 _I should have gone with them_ , I thought instantly. "Did this happen when you went to Falkreath alone?" I asked.

"No," Vilkas swallowed, nodding to the floor. "Perhaps because the wolf knew that I was returning, and it was contented to this end. But to travel to Ysgramor's tomb was to take it away from you for eternity. It was to deny it its solace all over again."

I sighed and shook my head in desperation. "What does it _want_ of me?"

"Let me finish," Vilkas smirked, his eyes sparkling. "The wolf...it's clever," his lip curled in distaste. "As we travelled north it forced questions upon me; reminded me of what had happened in the underforge, at Driftshade, and at the Nightgate Inn. It forced me to consider what would have become of you, had it not been part of me. _This_ made me ask whether it has control over me any longer, or if I have gained enough through your presence to use the wolf as I need its...gifts."

 _Oh, Vilkas._ My breath shuddered. "It got desperate because it knew you were about to remove it," I hazarded. "It _made_ you think these things, Vilkas, to manipulate you."

"No," Vilkas corrected, giving me a hopeful half-smile. "I know my beast. It doesn't play games, and the truth is far simpler. It has sworn fealty to you, or the dragon that the Divines put in you, if that makes it easier for you to accept. It wanted to keep you safe. It – _we_ – still do."

An uneasy itch made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Surely the loyalty we had toward one another was not purely borne of this connection the _werewolf_ had created? And if it was, what would become of us, this bond we had, when they _were_ cured? Would we even know or like one another? It was something I had never thought about but the thought of losing Vilkas and Farkas turned me pale with dread.

 _That's not fair,_ I told myself sternly. _You cannot suddenly want your shield-brothers to remain werewolves so that your friendship will remain what it is._

"Why did you listen to it?" was all I could voice.

"I didn't, at first," Vilkas shrugged again. "So it got more demanding, then desperate, begging that I return. It clawed at my mind as it had before you arrived, and when its pleas were ignored, its howls bounced around my skull. I let it rage at me," he drawled. "But...when we reached the tomb," he sat back wearily, "I looked upon the great statue of Ysgramor in the entrance to the resting place of the Companions of old. I placed Wuuthrad in Ysgramor's arms, and heard the antechamber beyond unseal," he adopted that faraway expression, reliving the experience. "And I could go no further."

I held my breath; my eyes were wide. When he didn't continue, I let the breath out in a rush and asked, "Why not?!"

Vilkas shook himself free of the memory; blinked at me uncertainly. "The beast forced me to remember all we experienced together in its efforts to bring me back to you. I did not fear for you or wish to return cursed, but my mind was now consumed with fresh remorse over what we had done in Driftshade, and grief for Kodlak, Ria, and Skjor. I could not face my ancestors, or my mentor, so weighed down."

"But that's what it wanted!" I insisted forlornly. "You let it beat you!"

"I didn't – and, it hasn't," Vilkas replied certainly with a tilt of amusement. "It wanted nothing more than to return to Whiterun and protect you."

I glanced to the ceiling in exasperation, not so certain as he. A lucid creature, when confronted with death, or something as good as death, would do and say whatever it needed to, to remain alive.

 _Vilkas has known his wolf for a lot longer than you,_ a snide voice in my head berated.

"So, Aela and Farkas entered the tomb," he resumed. "And I remained sat by Ysgramor's feet with my thoughts, and my desperate wolf, for company. And then, without realising I was doing it, I started singing," he _chuckled._

I blinked; for a beat I wondered if the journey had driven him mad. "What's so funny?"

He met my eyes, unable to contain his mirth. "It was the diamond sword song that you sang when we were by Lake Yorgrim on our way to Driftshade. Do you remember?"

"Vilkas!" a nervous laugh burst out of me; I hadn't expected _that._ "Of all the songs!"

"I know," he cut me off, shaking his head in baffled exasperation. "I stopped singing, wondering if it had been the wolf's doing in a fresh effort to remind me of you, or if I had sung it of my own choosing. And, that was when I _knew_ ," he said, with more conviction, "that I could not be cured that day."

"I don't understand," I frowned.

Vilkas regarded me with that apologetic look again, but this time it cut me to my core. I had to look away as tears welled in my eyes and I stared at the odd, glowing, egg-shaped baubles on Vilkas' dresser so I wouldn't have to look into those sorrowful eyes that knew me better than I seemed to know myself.

He replied quietly. "I realised that I could no longer tell where the wolf ended, and I began," he said in a murmur. "For the first time in my life, my desires aligned with the wolf's; the desire to keep you safe. And, I was scared," he admitted, with a huff of incredulity. "Scared that if I dragged the wolf from my soul, right then, it would take a part of me with it. A part that I would regret losing."

I had to look back to him. My tears retreated but I couldn't keep my frown from him. He was worried about the same thing I had wondered moments ago; who would Vilkas _be_ , once his wolf had gone?

"And Farkas?" I asked. My voice cracked unwittingly, for I could not bare to ask the other question hanging between us.

"He came back not long after I realised...what I realised," Vilkas trailed off, pausing thoughtfully. "He sat beside me and said nothing, but I could sense his conflict, his sorrow. After we sat in silence a while, he said that he missed you. That he wished you had come with us after all. I knew then that he and his wolf felt the same as I and mine, and that Kodlak was _right_."

I waited for more, but Vilkas merely turned his eyes up to the ceiling, as though by doing so he could observe our beloved Harbinger in Sovngarde.

"Aela freed Kodlak on her own," Vilkas' disappointment was plain. "Of all the people to conquer his wolf for him, and stand before him at his last..." he trailed off.

My heart thudded and my eyes widened. Before I could form a coherent reply, Vilkas glanced back down to me. "Aela told us what happened after Kodlak's wolf was defeated. There was a moment, before he ascended, where he stood before Aela and thanked her. Then he named you Harbinger, and disappeared."

A cold nothingness formed within me. I stared as I tried to accept it; _Aela_ had gone against everything she believed in and fought Kodlak's wolf for him. She had been the only person to hear Kodlak name me Harbinger. She could have ignored his words; _Divines_ , she could have emerged and named _herself_ Harbinger, and nobody would have fought her for it.

"You understand why he did it now, don't you?" Vilkas asked.

It felt as though he was speaking to me from a great distance, or perhaps that his words were drifting to me through water. My mind would not let go of Aela. Aela, who openly despised me and blamed me for this... _bond_ that had been unknowingly created between myself and their wolves. Yet, she had still relayed Kodlak's wishes. I had misjudged everybody to some extent since I had entered Jorrvaskr, but I had misjudged Aela worst of all.

I must have shaken my head, because Vilkas spoke up again.

"He did it to protect us," he said gently; his accent a quiet rumble.

I swam back into focus and stared at him, shocked. "You said he named me Harbinger after he had been freed of his beast," I reminded blankly. "He knew that the cure worked. He ascended to Sovngarde believing that both you and Farkas would be cured next. His wolf was gone, so it hadn't _made_ him protect _me_ ," I grew louder and the words came fast. I was still so _terribly_ confused. "In what _possible_ way does naming me his successor _protect_ us?"

The questions began to surge out of me. "How does naming _me_ Harbinger protect _anybody_? I can't stay with you – the Companions, I mean – we don't want to say it, but we all know it!" I stood, my eyes brimming with tears, clouding my vision.

Vilkas held his palms toward me. "Calm down," he urged; his eyes wary. "Kodlak loved us. He loved _you_. His decision makes sense, just _think._ "

His look, and the _fear_ I caught behind his silvery eyes frayed and threatened to unravel the tenuous knot that had been twisting inside of me since that night at the Blue Palace. I realised with terrible clarity that soon, _so soon_ , I would be alone again. But it was worse than before; my sister was now very probably my enemy, the man I loved had disappeared and was now very probably dead, and I was destined to leave this family I had stumbled into, who did stupid things for stupid reasons that I didn't understand, but who were driven by loyalty and protection, and love. I loved them, and I didn't _want_ to leave them, like this or at all, dragons be damned. Thick, suffocating grief coalesced over me and I wavered, crashing to my knees as Vilkas pitched forward to catch me under my arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm – I don't want to make this about me, I _swear_ ," I paled, terrified by the force of my realisation. I stared up to Vilkas; stared at the scar on his cheek that he had gained the first time he had saved me. It was thin and barely noticeable; paler than the rest of the skin around it, like a delicate strand of spider's silk brushing his cheek.

I briefly touched it, acknowledging my impact, the chaos I had wrought upon their lives. My knees and feet left the ground; I was being lifted, and Vilkas was saying something. I commanded that I listen.

"...in shock. We didn't allow ourselves time to grieve his loss and you have suppressed it for too long," he muttered. "And, Harbinger, _this_ time, it _is_ about you," he added, a little louder.

I was falling. No – lowered. Vilkas supported my back and knees. I was laid on something warm and soft in places and scratchy in others.

"I'm not your Harbinger," I murmured, wondering where I was; blinking as I looked up to the criss-crossed wooden beams of the ceiling. _Jorrvaskr. Oh. Good._

"Enough of that," Vilkas detangled his arms from under me then pushed my chest, urging me to lie down. "You are safe, so our wolves are at peace. We can discuss what must be done another time. Let me get you some water."

My head landed on softness, and the _smell_ of Vilkas surrounded me.

"No," I scrambled to sit up, pushing aside – what was this, bedding? Why was I in _bed_? "I'm –" I searched, realising Vilkas had simply brought me around the screen to his bed. My cheeks pinked – I wasn't _that_ feeble, was I? – and with more effort, I sat up. "I am well. Please," I met his eyes. "This is no time to be immobilised by grief. Vilkas," I pleaded, reaching forward to catch his hand. He let me take it; his brows knotted in concern.

My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I understood that there would be no going to Windhelm; not directly at least. I had to take the twins to Ysgramor's tomb. "I will take you and Farkas back, if your wolves need me to be the one to do it. We can leave at once," I aimed for steadiness.

Vilkas' frown deepened. "But, what of Windhelm – of your sister, and Hadvar? It is _my_ fault that I am still a beast, and I vowed that once returned-"

"You _vowed_ that once you were _cured_ , you would take me," I cut him off earnestly, squeezing his hand for emphasis and resting my forehead on our clasped hands. I closed my eyes and once again found it easier to voice my thoughts while I wasn't looking at my shield-brother, into those soulful, silvery eyes. "I have made vows too, brother," I whispered. "And I _will not_ put my needs and wants before yours any more. No matter the cost."

I could feel the blood pulsing through his veins where my fingers were pressed to his wrist, but my shield-brother remained otherwise immobile. I clenched my eyes to suppress my tears, acknowledging that I might be condemning Hadvar to torture, or death. I swallowed the lump in my throat rising to choke me as i made myself think about curing the twins instead, because it was the only certainty I had. "If music bound me to your wolves, perhaps that will be the key to freeing you from them," I managed.

"It...wasn't your music," Vilkas reminded in a gravelly voice. He cleared his throat. "You can't... _sing_ the wolf away."

"I'm not afraid," I glanced up, blinking back my tears with more success this time. I offered him a hopeful smile, though I felt closer to remorse than relief. "I know your wolf, Vilkas, and it – _he_ , has always protected me. He won't hurt me. And if Farkas' wolf feels the same as yours, it won't hurt me either."

Vilkas offered no protest, though it was clear he was not happy with my decision. Perhaps he said nothing because he knew if he wanted to be cured, there was simply no choice.

"Who will watch over the Companions while we are away?" he asked quietly.

The solution was simple. "Aela, of course."

" _Aela_?"

"Why not?" I challenged. "She will be the only remaining member of the Circle. The management of Jorrvaskr is as much her responsibility as it is ours."

Vilkas closed his mouth; considered, then nodded grimly.

"All right," I stood, pleased to note I was steady on my feet. "Give me an hour. I will arrange matters with Aela and return to Breezehome. My armour's there," I explained.

"The Legion armour?" Vilkas shook his head. "You don't need to wear that any more. You're one of us. Eorlund was under instructions to make you wolf armour, while we were away. Why hasn't he given it to you yet?"

"He – what?" I blinked. Eorlund Grey-Mane generally avoided speaking to me, and I assumed that he shared Vignar's almost instinctive wariness of anyone who sided with the Legion, or Jarl Balgruuf for that matter. Had he been making me armour without my knowing of it?

"It doesn't matter," I shook my head as Vilkas frowned. "Thank you for arranging that. I'll visit Eorlund after I clear the way with Aela, but I will still need to go to Breezehome – oh!" I remembered very suddenly that I was under orders not to leave Whiterun. "Vilkas – what about the _Jarl_ -?"

"I will speak to him."

I bit my bottom lip, cursing Jarl Balgruuf's protective streak. "It will be better if I speak to him."

"I'll come with you, then," Vilkas offered at once. "Farkas too. We'll face him together."

Nodding, worried about what reason I could possibly offer the Jarl without telling him the finer details of our journey, I made to exit Vilkas' room. It was time to act. "Okay. I'll talk to Aela, you talk to Farkas. Meet me at the Skyforge, and we'll go to Dragonsreach before we leave. Lydia will be there, and I want to say good bye to her before we go. If I'm _granted_ permission to go," I muttered the last.

Vilkas opened the door for me, and the darkness that had plagued us when I had first entered his room seemed to have entirely lifted.

I told myself that it was deciding upon a course of action that had relieved him, and not merely the presence of the dragon within me. Knowing how I effected the twins made me uneasy, though I wasn't entirely certain why. Perhaps it was because I still didn't understand what being dragonborn meant for myself.

And despite his appearance of calm, I had to remember that the curse was still upon my shield-brothers, and that dragonborn influence or no, it was my job to lift the weight of it from them entirely, for good.

–

"I'm taking the twins back to Ysgramor's tomb."

 _Thunk_. The fletching on Aela's arrow trembled from impact, embedded in the dead-centre of the target.

My shield-sister gave me a sideways glare; the side of her mouth twitched, but she said nothing and drew another arrow.

I smiled hopefully, though she had already turned her eyes back to her quarry. "While we're gone, would you manage the accounts?"

Aela _hmphed_ and lowered her bow. "You would trust me with Vilkas' precious book?"

"And the money box, yes," I fumbled at my neck to draw the keys up from their chain. "Here," I unthreaded and held it out.

She glanced from it, to me, and back to the key again; her eyes bore a trace of wariness. "Why aren't you afraid of me, Celeste?"

"Should I be afraid of you?" I posed.

"Yes," her yellowy-green gaze whipped up; weighed me. "We tried to kill you."

"I have made peace with that," I reaffirmed my offering. "I understand why you did it."

"You _what_?" she snapped.

"Will you take the key or not?" I fired.

After a pause, she idly extended her hand. "How could _you_ possibly understand-"

I sighed and dropped it into her open palm. "Vilkas explained everything. I wish Kodlak had done so, then I might have..." I stopped, glancing to the warrior as a sudden surge of guilt tore through me. _Then I might have saved Skjor_. "But the past...is in the past," I concluded quietly.

"Yes," Aela murmured, staring at the key in her hand. "And we have every day, every hour, every _second_ , to answer for our actions," she added pensively.

It was a strangely candid, wistful comment from a woman who I'd only ever heard speak in snarls and snaps. I nodded and pushed on, for there was still much to do.

"I will fix...this," I promised carefully. "What I did to them, I mean," I added, when Aela glanced up.

She nodded, though her mind seemed elsewhere. "Yeah. You do that."

"Okay," I pipped brightly and stepped past Aela. "So long, shield-sister. We'll be back in a week, I guess."

"And what of Windhelm?" she asked. "Your sister, and the soldier?"

I stilled. Why had Vilkas told _Aela_ about _them_?

"They will have to wait," I murmured, unable to mask my regret. I couldn't meet her eye; didn't bother turn back to her, and instead made myself take step after step away, toward the Skyforge.

It didn't matter if Aela knew of Giselle and Hadvar. She had every right to know about my affairs, seeing as I knew her all of hers.

She didn't reply, and I told myself to be heartened by our talk. She hadn't accused or yelled at me; we had actually managed to have a civil conversation. I breathed a sigh of relief as I ascended the ramp to the Skyforge.

–

Eorlund Grey-Mane _had_ made me a suit of wolf armour, but the quiet, grizzled old smith rumbled that he'd been waiting for Vilkas to return before giving it to me. When I asked why he hadn't mentioned it, he seemed confused. Further questioning unearthed that Eorlund believed it was supposed to be a _surprise_.

While I waited for Farkas and Vilkas to join me, I inspected my armour. It was made of expertly-shaped darkened steel, padded with warm, black furs. At the neck of the breastplate was a small, finely-carved depiction of a wolf's head; my fingers glanced over its cold nose briefly in delight; I huffed a little laugh. The kilt was short, making it easier to move in (Eorlund assured me) and constructed of the same stiff, sturdy black fur as the padding, overlaid with panels of steel and etched with curling patterns. Grinning as I ran my hand over complimentary swirls on the shoulder plates, a warm satisfaction took hold and I thought that yes, _this_ was the strong, _functional_ armour I had been searching for.

I put it on straight over my training garb. It was heavy, but surprisingly flexible, even after securing each buckle down the side of the breastplate. Eorlund handed me a weapons belt, padded with the same dark fur, holding two new daggers forged of Skyforge steel.

"It fits...really well," I commended, extending my arms and glancing down, wishing I had a mirror to see the whole ensemble properly. I had always expected steel armour to feel cold and uncomfortable, but the padding in this both warmed and cushioned me.

Eorlund passed over a pair of steel-plated fur bracers, then stood back, crossing his arms and regarding me speculatively. "You wear it well enough," he assessed tersely, then nodded beyond me. "Boots are over there, lass."

I had become quite attached to my Legion boots as they were well and truly worn in, but I didn't want to offend the smith. While I pulled on the matching boots, I caught sight of the twins ascending the ramp, both with packs on their backs.

 _The witches heads_ , I realised with a sickening lurch. To distract my nausea, I took in their preparations. They weren't as heavily armed as they had been the previous journey, and Wuuthrad was strapped to Farkas' back this time. Vilkas carried my lute over one shoulder, and my bow over the other.

 _They know what to expect now._

I grinned as a sense of adventure swept over me. Hooking my Legion boots over my arm, I jogged to meet them at the top of the ramp.

"What do you think?" I spun.

Farkas' face blanked in surprise and his eyes flickered over me. Vilkas caught his arm urgently.

"Don't say what you're about to say," he urged in an unimpressed tone.

"I wasn't-" Farkas drawled swiftly, flashing his brother an innocent look.

"You _were_ ," Vilkas shot him a warning.

Fondness for the pair swelled within me, and I stepped onto my toes to wrap my arms around them, drawing them both down for an awkward hug.

"Thank you," I laughed as they spluttered and protested. I was so grateful that I had come to Jorrvaskr, despite the cost, for there _had_ been so much gained.

Farkas ended up laughing as he asked, "For what?"

Leaping back, I continued to grin. "For everything."

Vilkas' cheeks pinked; he tried to cover by flashing his brother an unimpressed look. "Here," he passed me my coat and scarf, then un-shouldered my lute and bow. "I'm not your pack horse."

"I would _never_ presume such, _Harbinger_ ," I traded him for my Legion boots which he stowed in his pack; he with a grimace and huff, and I with another laugh.

We took our leave from Eorlund, advising the smith that we would be gone for a few days on business. It was a vastly different departure from their last; no summoning the Companions to listen to a pretty speech or air of solemnity.

And I was relieved, if I was honest. There was a chance that when the Companions next assembled, the news that Kodlak had named me Harbinger would be revealed. It was an announcement that I wished to avoid at all costs, despite Kodlak's motive and whether it made sense or not to the Circle. Distanced from Jorrvaskr, I reasoned that I would be able to talk to Vilkas further about it, and once he was cured, perhaps I _could_ convince him to accept the role, as it always _should_ have been.

I wound my scarf around my neck and threw my coat over my shoulders. Between the new armour and my woollens, I would be toasty warm on our hike north. As I shouldered both my lute and bow, my heart glowed in my chest. I was actually _excited;_ I was on the brink of leaving Whiterun on an adventure to cure two of my favourite people in the world.

Since when had I yearned for adventure? A handful of months ago, the notion would have been absurd; I had preferred to remain in Solitude with music as my escape.

But the prospect of this journey, this _escape_ , thrilled me in a different way. My confidence soared with each step we took closer to the Jarl, and by the time we entered the great doors of Dragonsreach I was convinced that there would be no reason the Jarl could give to keep me here that we couldn't counter.

"Celeste?" Lydia's tones drifted toward me from the side entrance.

The three of us turned and faced Lydia as a wall of plated armour. She glanced at both brothers in turn, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "You two are back! Does that mean," she flashed me a quick glance. "Are you planning on leaving for Windhelm _now_? Because the Jarl-"

"No – not yet," I waved my hand toward her. "There is some Companion business to attend to in the north, before Windhelm," I left it at that.

Lydia frowned; suspicion flared in her mossy eyes. She stepped forward, reached for my hands, and said carefully, "Now might not be the best time to interrupt the Jarl. He's been in the war room all morning."

"Then it is the _perfect_ time to approach him," I squeezed Lydia's hands reassuringly. "For whatever he is discussing up there will lend him perspective," I lifted my eyebrows hopefully.

"I agree," Vilkas interjected. He glanced along the immense hall to where the Jarl's throne was empty, beyond the roaring hearth. "Time is our enemy, and soon Celeste will have to leave to fulfil her duty to the Greybeards. He cannot keep her shut up in Whiterun until that time," he murmured.

Lydia's eyes widened, then she glanced back to me. "Is everything all right?" she asked quietly.

I smiled, nodding. "It will be."

Lydia glanced away, exhaling to the floor as she released my hands. "All right. Can I come with you on this...business?" she asked in a tone that made plain she already knew what the answer would be.

I motioned for her to walk with us, but shook my head. "Companion business. It's a...delicate affair," we resumed our path. Lydia fell into step beside me, and the brothers followed behind us.

"I can be delicate," she defended. "And the Jarl will demand to know more than that," Lydia mumbled.

"There are promises that must be kept," I evaded. It would put the twins and Aela at risk of being run out of town if I told anyone, even Lydia.

"He will understand why she must go, when he learns that Kodlak named Celeste his successor," Vilkas spoke up.

I cringed; Lydia whipped around to face him. "He _what_?"

"No – _not_ that, not _now_ ," I shot him an imploring look. "I'm _not_ your Harbinger."

Vilkas lowered his eyes and smiled knowingly.

"But - Aela said you'd been named-" Farkas began uncertainly.

"That doesn't matter," I raised my eyebrows to him. "Your brother is rightful Harbinger, and _everybody_ knows it."

"That's not how it works," Farkas crossed his brows. "The old Harbinger picks the new one."

"If Kodlak-" Lydia tried to get a word in.

"Good," I pipped, cutting her off. "Then as your Harbinger, I name Vilkas my successor, effective immediately."

"Celeste," Vilkas drawled warningly.

Farkas looked to his brother dubiously. "Can she do that?"

"I just did," I fired quickly, forcing a smile and lowering my head to Vilkas. "Lead us, and I will follow," I vowed.

There was a pause disturbed only by the crackle of the flames in the hearth.

Vilkas' sigh broke the silence, and he murmured, "We'll discuss it later."

"As you wish, Harbinger."

" _Celeste_ -"

"Ah! Lady Dragonborn!" another voice interrupted.

As one, we turned toward the newcomer. The court mage, Farengar, approached from his office with open arms and the faintest hint of an amused, but welcoming smile. As ever, his eyes were shrouded by the shadow of his hood.

Why was he so happy to see me. "Do you need something?"

He smirked openly as he drew to a halt before me. "As it happens, yes. I have been making steady progress on my translation of the dragonstone, and I was hoping to run a few words of it by you to determine whether or not I am on the right track-"

"-but my Jarl, perhaps it _is_ time to accept the General's request," _another_ voice from the direction of the staircase leading to the war room came, capturing my attention. Proventus Avenicci's agitated, earnest tones resounded as he clattered into view before the rest of his party. "Any response we make _will_ result in offence-"

"It's all happening in Dragonsreach this morning," Lydia muttered in an exasperated, sing-song voice.

"If Ulfric wishes to challenge my brother's rule then we should meet him, in the _old_ way, before any other," Hrongar cut the Jarl's steward off pointedly.

"And _finally_ , they emerge," Farengar intoned quietly, moving toward the throne; his need of me seemingly forgotten.

More pairs of booted feet descended the stairs; the Jarl, Irileth, Hrongar, and a few guards in their wake. My eyes were on the Jarl; my purpose temporarily swept aside by the gravity of what I was hearing.

Was the Jarl about to choose a side in the war?! What had prompted _this_ change so suddenly? The Jarl made directly for his throne and wordlessly took his seat. His party assembled around him, but the guards parted, drifting toward the exit; they must have been dismissed.

"Jarl Balgruuf, Proventus is right," Irileth's voice rose over the multiple footfalls. "Ulfric will see even _this_ tradition as a mark against his right to rule."

Only one guard remained before the Jarl, but I noticed then that it wasn't a Whiterun guard, but a Legion officer. So _that_ was why they had been discussing the war. The General must have sent another entreaty to Whiterun.

"With respect, Lady Irileth," the Legion officer spoke, "Ulfric Stormcloak has no more right to rule Skyrim than you or I. I am for our Jarl's proposal; if Stormcloak refuses the old ways, he dishonours Skyrim, and we will have both our answer, and a clear conscience."

My heart skipped a beat and the blood drained from my face. I _recognised_ the lilting accent, the quiet confidence beneath it. I grabbed the nearest arm to me with some urgency as my eyes widened in shock. _But how?_

"What is it?" Lydia whispered urgently; it had been her arm that I'd grabbed.

"Quaestor Reidarsson," Irileth sighed sharply, "I would advise against using my words against me."

"Sometimes it is better to be clear, Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf droned. "Ulfric will not misinterpret me," he added with gruff certainty.

"I believe you are correct," Proventus said, his tone defeated.

I barely heard him over the erratic thump of my heart beating in my ears.

"That's him, isn't it?"

I startled, glancing to my left to meet Vilkas' all-too-knowing eyes. The steady certainty to his expression made me shiver.

"Who?" Lydia hissed from my other side, detangling my hand. The Jarl spoke again, but couldn't make sense of his words; my mind had fogged.

 _Quaestor Reidarsson_ , Irileth had called him. He was here; he was _alive_.

"It's Hadvar," Vilkas supplied with a nod toward the throne, or rather the man standing before it.

" _That's_ Hadvar?" Lydia whispered incredulously.

How had he survived the attack on the Pale camp? _Why hadn't he written to let me know he lived?_

"I am at your service, my Jarl," the officer with Hadvar's voice spoke. "The General bade I await your response. Given the timing of the report we intercepted, he urges you to act with the swiftest discretion."

The sound of his voice brought me back to the now. I focused on Hadvar; the sound of his voice, the back of his head. Under his helmet I made out a hint of that brownish, reddish hair, turned burnt orange by the hearth fire behind him. I could see the tip of his nose, but no more of his face, from where we had stilled. His Legion armour looked different; there was more steel and less leather than there had been when I had first met him.

 _Is it him?_

My feet moved; I hastened to the landing; my coat and plait swished behind me in my wake. I circled the throne to get a proper look at his face; to be sure that I was not losing my mind.

Halting beside Irileth, I stared, vaguely aware that Lydia, Farkas and Vilkas had all rushed after me, to settle behind me. I felt the eyes of Proventus and Irileth on me at once.

Jarl Balgruuf realised that I was with them then, too. "Ah, Thane Passero. This is a pleasant surprise – I had not expected you until dinner time."

And then _he_ turned his attention from the Jarl to me. My frantic heart flipped as our eyes met, and I caught surprise in the stormy-grey that had saved me what felt like an eon ago.

It _was_ Hadvar.

* * *

 _A/n: phew, that was a bit on an intense chapter to write. I'm really interested to see what you think; was it too much? Not enough? Too obvious what was going on?  
Thanks again to those who have recently joined the story and reviewed - particularly since I've had to slow down on my updates. Shoutout to __originalmagicalartist - I am so gratified that you are enjoying Celeste's journey and your lovely review made me blush furiously considering I get so much joy out of penning her tale. And regarding the questions a few of you have on Giselle's status (on all regards); I can't say much at this point without giving anything away, but things are **really** not as they seem so, um - please, trust me!  
_ _Oh, and the book Vilkas refers to in his explanation to Celeste is titled Our Curse and Our Glory by Querbolus Primus, if you're interested._


	37. Mixed Messages

_Chapter 37: Mixed Messages_

"As you have probably realised, we have been entertaining another one of General Tullius' representatives this morning," the Jarl continued; his tone somewhat dry.

He hadn't seemed to notice that his Thane and his visitor had both frozen in the act of sighting one another. Belatedly, I nodded by way of response to what the Jarl had said, but did not trust my voice to find the right words to speak as relief swept through me. A victorious song in my head buzzed and blurred all else, cheering _he's alive_ , over and over again.

The fleeting surprise Hadvar had expressed when he had first seen me shifted quickly into warmth, and he smiled a smile that made first his, then my whole face light up.

"The Imperials have intercepted Stormcloak intelligence that suggests Ulfric plans to wage war on us, and soon," the Jarl intoned, his voice low and unimpressed, and justly insulted.

This captured enough of my attention that I did a double-take, tearing my eyes from Hadvar to glance to the Jarl. War on _Whiterun_? Was Stormcloak _mad_? Did he wish to make an enemy of _every_ remaining Jarl in Skyrim?

"Ah, there it is. See?" the Jarl _had_ been watching me, and shifted forward in his throne. "That is the face I wore when I first heard the news, too. Why, you are wondering, would Ulfric risk forcing my hand to choose a side when I have made my position clear?"

I frowned. " _Is_...Whiterun going to be attacked?" I asked quietly.

"Not if I can help it," the Jarl turned his attention back to Hadvar.

I did too, as nerves fuelled by a hollow indignation pooled in my belly.

"Quaestor, I would have you deliver a message to Stormcloak on my behalf, seeing as the General has _kindly_ left you at my disposal until we can arrive at a resolution," the Jarl drawled.

Hadvar bowed his head respectfully. "I am at your service, my Jarl."

I sucked in a breath; my chest constricted in sensing what was to come. I had just gotten Hadvar _back_. The Jarl wasn't going to immediately send him away – was he?

"Good. You will take my axe to Windhelm, and tell-"

 _No._ Hadvar couldn't go to Windhelm – if Ulfric or Giselle discovered a _hint_ of who he was, he would be restrained and I might never see him again.

"You can't!" I blurted out on a desperate exhale, cutting the Jarl off.

Jarl Balgruuf paused, and all eyes turned to me.

I swallowed down my panic and rushed down the stairs before the Jarl's throne, to stand between him and Hadvar. "Sending an Imperial officer into Windhelm is tantamount to a suicide mission," I began, my eyes imploring.

"We may be on the eve of war, Miss Passero," the Jarl gave me a hard look. "The Legion are better equipped than my men to meet the Stormcloaks head on; both in this matter, and if Whiterun should be attacked," he sat back thoughtfully on his throne. "I do not believe that Ulfric truly wishes me to join with the Legion," he murmured. "But I do not respond idly to threats against my people. Sending an officer of the Empire in my name will make it clear that I will not play his game, for anything or any _one_."

I shook my head again swiftly. "No – I understand. But, please, my Jarl. There is another reason you can't send... _this_ Imperial officer."

In the silence that followed while the Jarl waited for me to continue, I glanced to our audience and tried to swallow the fear trying to choke me. The Jarl's people, and my comrades, all seemed to be in various stages of mute curiosity. Both Hrongar and Irileth looked as though they wanted to permanently silence me. Proventus seemed baffled – probably shocked that I had interrupted the Jarl. I couldn't see Farengar's eyes, as usual, but his face was trained in my direction and his arms were crossed; there was a hint of a curve to one side of his mouth, as though he was amused, or maybe snarling – it was difficult to tell without being able to see his eyes.

To the right of the Jarl's landing stood my shield-brothers and Lydia; my housecarl sending me a pleading look that I interpreted as her request that I tread very carefully. Farkas had his brows crossed; no doubt sensing my panic, but Vilkas seemed more relaxed. When I met his eyes, he gave me a supportive, barely discernible nod.

 _We are with you,_ was his unspoken message _._ Taking a step back so that I stood beside Hadvar, instead of in front of him, I reached down and clasped his hand securely in mine. I glanced up to him feeling wholly exposed, and my heart was appeased when I met his eyes. My anxious, uncertain emotions were brushed away by the calm, enduring look and the small smile that he gave me. Here was the courage that I had been seeking, and thus fortified, I turned back to the Jarl. His gaze was fixed on our joined hands.

"Jarl Balgruuf, I...would like to introduce you to Hadvar, the Legion officer who saved my life at Helgen."

"Uh hah," the Jarl seemed to understand well enough, though he spoke in a rather unimpressed murmur. "You were at Helgen too, were you boy?"

"Aye, my Jarl," Hadvar replied softly, nodding once. "Though I would argue with Lady Dragonborn that we saved one another."

I scoffed, throwing him a suspicious look and recalling that he had said something similar to his family when we had first met. "I would have been roasted alive by that dragon had you not dragged me to my feet and into the keep."

Hadvar cast me a doubtful, sideways glance. "And _I_ wouldn't have made it out of the keep alive, had it not been for you."

"By what logic?" I blinked, trying not to laugh. My spirits soared and I realised that I was _enjoying_ this, our first conversation since we had parted, despite it being a little mad.

He grinned at me, and I couldn't stop myself from laughing a little as I continued, insisting, "I was a _significant_ hinderance to you-"

" _Celeste_ ," the Jarl called out pointedly; the dry, unimpressed tone cutting through our mirth.

Oh, right – we were still standing before the Jarl. I turned back to Jarl Balgruuf, unable to suppress my flush of embarrassment. "Apologies, my Jarl. Who saved who in Helgen is not _exactly_ the matter at hand," I murmured the last.

Thankfully, I caught amusement of a sort in the Jarl's eyes, though he still sounded incredibly droll when he spoke. "I take it by your...familiarity with the Quaestor, that you believe your enemies will capture him and use him against you."

My chest ached at the word enem _ies_ , but I nodded, grateful that the Jarl had seen into the heart of the matter. "Yes. Stormcloaks attacked Hadvar's garrison in the Pale after intercepting a letter that I had addressed to him there, directly after my sister had come for me at the Nightgate inn. I am certain that they were looking for him."

" _What_?" Hadvar hissed.

"I see," the Jarl sighed, his eyes flicking between us. I cast Hadvar an apologetic look; sorry that it had happened, and sorry that I couldn't explain all I had said properly right now. I had explained, in a letter of course, but it had been returned to me unopened when Hadvar hadn't been located.

"Might I propose an alternative, Jarl Balgruuf?" Vilkas spoke up from the side of the hall.

There was a rustle of cloth and leathers as all in the room turned to regard my shield-brother. His arms had been crossed, but he uncrossed them as he took a step forward and bowed his head to the Jarl.

"Vilkas," the Jarl addressed casually, giving him leave to lift his head and join in the discussion properly. "Are you about to offer one of the Companions to be my messenger bird?"

"In a sense," Vilkas tilted his head to one side. "It seems that we would all benefit by knowing more about Ulfric Stormcloak and Giselle Passero's plans right now, with regards to both the fate of Whiterun, and the nature of their interest in our Thane," he flashed me a quick glance. "These false Dragonborn rumours have caused problems for her since they arose, and each move they make only results in more questions, and deaths."

I sobered at his summation, admitting to myself glumly that it was true. Those men and women who had been at the Pale garrison; the Imperial scout I had given my letter to. Even the Stormcloak whose shield we had taken while escaping from the Nightgate. They had died because of _my_ involvement in this war, however obscure it was.

"The purpose of this mission is to deliver a message to Stormcloak, for the good of _every_ man, woman and child who calls Whiterun home," Irileth replied tersely. "Nothing more and nothing less."

"Correct," Vilkas agreed with the Dunmer swiftly. "And, if you want your message to be interpreted as a negotiation, and not a threat, would it not make sense for it to be delivered, not by an agent of the Imperial Legion he has waged war on, but by your trusted Thane?"

My heart skipped a beat as the room responded to Vilkas' proposal with murmurs, for he didn't need to be any more explicit. They understood that he meant for _me_ to deliver Jarl Balgruuf's message. And, I understood at once what my shield-brother was doing; merely what he had promised to do for me, before they had left to free Kodlak's soul. I tilted my head at him and crossed my brows. I had vowed to take them to Ysgramor's tomb and free them, and he was securing me a path to my sister instead. Oh, _Vilkas._

Hadvar squeezed my hand urgently; I turned in a flash, looking up to him supportively. "It's all right," I whispered, squeezing back, feeling, very suddenly, remarkably calm. Now that I knew Hadvar had not been captured, I was not certain I _needed_ to go to Windhelm so urgently, but if there was a window of opportunity available to me; if I could travel both there, and to Ysgramor's tomb, then I had to go now, before I presented myself to the Greybeards.

 _And if Whiterun goes to war,_ I questioned myself suddenly? _Will you leave those you love to the mercy of the Stormcloaks, and hide away in High Hrothgar as though the battle is not taking place below you?_

I grimaced at the prospect and tried to listen instead to what was being said. There was no certainty that Ulfric would besiege Whiterun.

"The Stormcloaks have already tried to capture Celeste," Jarl Balgruuf spoke audibly over the others, and the voices died down at his words. Once the hall was silent once more, the Jarl added, "What makes you think that if Miss Passero walks into Windhelm, they will not arrest her at once? Her very existence threatens to expose their lie."

Vilkas smiled knowingly. "She will not be alone," he offered simply. "They will not dare."

"This is absurd," Irileth spat out in frustration. It was clear from her outburst that she had been holding back her thoughts for some time. "The Dragonborn is possibly the _least_ appropriately equipped person to deliver your message, and we are _wasting valuable time_ discussing this, my Jarl," she turned back toward him pointedly.

Jarl Balgruuf was still staring at Vilkas; his eyes narrower than usual, but with his hand stroking his beard; speculating. "I am aware of the necessity for haste, Irileth," he droned. "And in this matter, I agree with you," he sat up straighter, shaking his head. "Celeste cannot take this message. Ulfric has become too impulsive, and we cannot hope to understand how he might respond if he is confronted by her."

 _He'll think I'm Giselle,_ I huffed morosely to myself.

"Then, send me, my Jarl," Hadvar spoke up gravely from my side. "I am not against your original proposal. I _am_ equipped to confront Stormcloaks. Nobody else should bear that risk," he glanced at me, and added quietly. "They will not know who I am when they see me, and I will not stay long enough for them to realise it."

I wasn't so certain. I glanced over his features and thought that even though there was a sense of resolution about him, he seemed sadder than before. His eyes were back on the Jarl, but there was an air of defeat about him which reminded me of the mood he had been in as we had taken leave of his family and Riverwood, before I had absurdly burst into song on the bridge.

 _He's already thinking about good bye_ , I realised. Well, _I_ was not ready to say good bye.

"My Jarl," my gaze was fixed on Hadvar, even though he wasn't looking at me, "I beg of you. Don't send the man I love to the home of my enemy."

Hadvar's head whipped to me; his eyes widened and searched me for the truth in what I had said. My heart raced for being so open, so forward about a feeling that I barely understood. Blood pumped noisily through my ears, but I maintained his gaze, so that he would know that I was sincere. The throne room was otherwise silent.

"I can do this," I added softly, to Hadvar mostly; my expression serious but my voice sonorous in the quiet hall. "They cannot hope to cage me. I am not as weak and useless as I once was," I said, a little louder. I turned to the Jarl, meeting his icy-blue eyes with what I hoped was a measure of calm confidence. "Stormcloak _will_ hear your message should I deliver it."

The idea of standing before Ulfric Stormcloak sent cold fury through me which I tried to quench with a reminder that I didn't know how to shout _all_ of the words he had used against the High King – _yet_.

But I realised suddenly that given a choice, I _wanted_ to stand before him. I didn't want to hide in Whiterun, scared that the Stormcloaks were going to attack me the next time I set foot outside of the gates. I wanted to know why they were trying to capture me. I was worried about what the journey might unearth about my family, but for the sake of Whiterun, I could put that anxiety aside, to speak for the families and people I had gotten to know since I had arrived in Whiterun, who had remained home because they _weren't_ equipped to stand up to Jarls or soldiers, or dragons.

I smiled, the awareness making me bold, and yet again, calmer. "If I go to Windhelm it will announce to Ulfric Stormcloak, and the whole of Skyrim that I, the _true_ Dragonborn, stand not with the Empire, or the Stormcloaks, but with _Whiterun_ ," I took a step toward the Jarl, though kept a firm hold of Hadvar's hand. My chest swelled as I continued; "The time for hiding underneath your wing is at its end. Soon, I will ascend the seven-thousand steps to meet my destiny and nobody will shelter me then. But before I leave you all, send me to Windhelm; _let me be your Thane_ , and the Dragonborn that Skyrim needs _today_."

The Jarl had sat back while I had been making my entreaty, and his eyes flickered over me as he frowned thoughtfully. There was a long pause after my pretty speech, during which the Jarl glanced at Vilkas, Lydia and Farkas, and then to Hadvar. His eyes came to rest on me. He sighed, and nodded; his mouth forming a grim line.

" _Divines_ , give me strength," Irileth muttered under her breath.

Jarl Balgruuf shot her a quick, warning look before leaning forward on this throne and motioning toward me. "She is right, Irileth," he seemed to be reasoning with his housecarl, or perhaps still trying to convince himself that this was the right course. "Celeste will be leaving us soon, whether we acknowledge that time of change or not. However," he fixed his gaze on me, "if you are to do this thing for me, I cannot simply hand you to the wolves."

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing his unknowingly inappropriate analogy, wondering if I had heard Vilkas cough, or had just imagined it. I faced forward and remained still, my eyes shining with victory as the Jarl continued.

"I cannot have you marching up to the Palace of the Kings making demands. We must be _smart_ about how we approach this," he mused.

Perhaps he _had_ just been clearing his throat; Vilkas spoke up next. "I am with her," he intoned.

"As am I," Farkas added straight away.

"And I," Lydia continued.

I looked toward them as Lydia stepped forward to stand beside my shield-brothers; a look of wilful determination on her face. I smiled gratefully at all three of them.

"And I," Hadvar added, stepping up to meet me. He shifted his hand so our fingers were twined, but when I turned to see what he was doing, his eyes were on the Jarl; resolved and awaiting orders.

I shook my head. "But – _you_ can't – I'm doing this for-" I whispered urgently.

"You cannot expect me to stay behind while the woman I love carries out a duty that would have been mine," his head shifted; his eyes found mine. His voice quavered with restraint as it lowered to a whisper; "had she loved me less."

I swallowed my words, unable to form an argument and with what I had been about to say forgotten. _He loves me._

"I'm coming with you," Hadvar murmured stubbornly, shoving my shoulder with his lightly.

I couldn't mask my smile as I turned back to face the Jarl.

The audience did not continue for much longer. Sufficed to say, Irileth looked as though she wanted to murder somebody while Jarl Balgruuf assented that those who had spoken up would accompany me, and then outlined some conditions of his own.

I was to make directly for Windhelm, sticking to the main, public roads. No distractions or short cuts. I was to be accompanied by Vilkas, Farkas, Lydia or Hadvar, preferably all four, at _all_ times. My entourage, who he rather embarrassingly referred to my friends as, were to be dressed in the armour of Whiterun guards, so as not to attract unwanted attention, and to make it explicitly clear to any who sighted us who our orders had come from.

Finally, Jarl Balgruuf asked me to come to him, and then stood to walk around to the back of his throne.

I let go of Hadvar's hand to comply, contented to do so in knowing that we would be spending a day or two, at least, in each other's company. By the time I had reached the landing, the Jarl had returned to stand in front his throne with an axe clasped before him.

"Take this to Stormcloak," he bade, holding the weapon out to me.

I glanced from it to him, grasping the axe with both hands; willing myself to be strong enough to hold it. It was heavy, but I could bear the weight for now.

"Tell him," the Jarl's eyes drifted to the axe in my arms, then he adopted a thoughtful, faraway expression. He spoke up in a more regretful tone. "Tell him to take my axe and lower his sword, for Skyrim's sake. If he will do this for our peoples, then I will stand by him at the moot."

I bit my tongue so I wouldn't snap. _Stand_ with that traitor, that _murderer_? I merely nodded, as was expected, though my lips were pursed tight and my blood boiled at the possibility that, should Ulfric comply to Balgruuf's request, he might become High King after all.

"And if he will not accept my axe," the Jarl sighed, glancing up to meet my eyes. His look was hard, and his words were harder. "Then return it, for I will have need of it in the days to come."

I nodded, my fury admonished by the Jarl's weighty regret as I understood that if Ulfric would not stand down, Whiterun _would_ be attacked by his army. Better for Balgruuf to stand by him at a meeting that assured him of nothing, than to bring the Stormcloaks down on the city.

"It will be done, my Jarl," I managed quietly. "For our people, I will use all I have at my disposal to try and make him see sense."

–

Within the hour we departed Dragonsreach. Hadvar delegated what needed to be arranged; Farkas was to assemble provisions, Lydia was to retrieve guard armour from the barracks, and Vilkas was to organise horses. A plan was proposed; we would meet at the stables within a half hour, ride east adjacent to the White river, and camp for the night at the junction where the White met Darkwater. Tomorrow we would ride north for Windhelm and deliver the Jarl's message before the sun set.

Nobody seemed to mind the plan, or deferring to Hadvar, and our party split up to prepare for the journey to Windhelm.

"What am I to do?" I asked as the others left to see to their tasks.

Hadvar turned and hesitated; the efficient, hardened edge to his eyes softened.

He opened his mouth, somewhat tentatively, and placed a gentle hand on my arm. "I am reluctant to let you out of my sights for a second. But, you should change out of that armour," he proposed; the least definitive suggestion he had made. "You're approaching Windhelm on behalf of your Jarl, not the Companions. Do you have anything else?"

I heard what he said, but the hand on my arm and soft lilting accent did wonders to distract me. I stared, muted as my thoughts cheered:

 _He's here._

 _He's alive._

 _You're travelling to Windhelm together._

 _You both just declared your love for each other in front of the Jarl._

"Celeste?" Hadvar prompted quietly.

I shook myself in an attempt to regain focus. Armour. Right. I had my Legion armour, which obviously wouldn't do, and...

I winced. There was always the ceremonial armour the Jarl had commissioned for me, with the Whiterun horse blazing on its breast. I _was_ venturing out as a representative of Whiterun, wasn't I? But, I had my doubts the thin leather and jewellery-like fastenings would stop a purposefully thrown spoon, let alone a blade. I didn't want to wear it and be a nervous wreck about whether or not it would do its job. No, it would not do either.

I shook my head as I grappled to keep hold of Jarl Balgruuf's axe. "Nothing...suitable," I answered regretfully.

"Never mind - we'll work something out," he offered a warm smile, then glanced toward the axe. "Can I help you with that?"

"Oh. Thank you," I handed it over.

He strapped it to his weapons belt, nonchalant, as though it was weightless, and it swung to rest beside his sword. Hadvar motioned toward the stairs leading down from Dragonsreach, and the same hand rested on the small of my back when I turned to precede him.

"I know," he resolved happily. "We'll go by Adrianne's. Uncle Alvor's last letter made it sound like they are becoming such good friends that I would like to meet her. She's bound to have some armour that will suit our needs, given the amount she's been commissioned to make-"

As we clopped down the steep stairs, I listened to his casual talk in wonder, lost for words. That morning – no more than a few hours ago – I hadn't known whether he was alive, and had felt guilt at the thought of him suffering while I took the twins to Ysgramor's tomb. And now he was _here_ , whole and completely fine, with his hand on my back, guiding me toward Warmaidens and chatting about his family.

A lump swelled in my throat and thick, confused tears sprang to my eyes. He'd been writing to Alvor and Sigrid. Of _course_ he had, they were his family. But, it meant that I could have asked them about him after all. I had been panicking over him because I had been too afraid to ask anybody who might know of his fate, in case they made my worst imaginings real.

Why hadn't _he_ told me he was alive? Where had he been, if not the Pale?

"Wait – please," I cut him off, stopped half way around the Gildergreen. The resident Talos worshipper cried out unintelligibly from in front of his tent, but with my mind full of conflict it was a simple matter to tune him out.

Hadvar's ease shifted into concern when he realised that I was in distress. "What's wrong?" glancing either side of us swiftly, he grasped my hand and urged me to sit on the nearest bench under the whitened tree.

I did as he bade, and once I had settled he knelt on the cobbles before me; his hand clasping both of mine resolutely. Again, I could only stare, caught between tears in the face of his earnest kindness, and a desperate plea for answers. It simply did not make sense that he had not told me he had survived, if he loved me. I was fully aware that we did not have time for the conversation we needed to have - our actions would determine which side Whiterun chose in the war - but I _had_ to know what had happened - or what _I_ had done wrong.

"I thought you were dead," I wavered; the lump in my throat made my voice crack. "Why did you not write? A single letter could have eased a weight of grief from my heart."

Hadvar's confusion deepened the furrow on his brow. Drawing back, he frowned. "Didn't...?" his voice was rough as well, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "But, I did write to you," he claimed thickly.

A prickle of unease crept along the back of my neck in the face of his bemusement, and I shook my head. "The last letter I received was the one warning of the false Dragonborn," I told him, slowly and clearly. _The one that you signed with all your love._

His eyes widened then he glanced either side of us again, agitated. What was he searching for? I checked, but only found the usual Whiterun folk walking by, on their usual Whiterun business, completely disinterested in our world.

He sighed, loud and overwhelmed, and raked the Legion helmet off his head. It idly fell onto the worn, cold stones of the courtyard beside him. "You haven't received a word from me since then?" he managed through his teeth.

I shook my head again as fear clutched my throat. Hadvar _had_ written to me? But that meant...

The stormy grey flashed, brimming with suppressed, building fury; as fierce as a sabrecat being backed into a corner. "You thought _I_ was still in the Pale when the garrison was attacked?" he confirmed in a low voice.

I nodded.

"Shor's balls," he raised his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes and rubbed a temple as though he had a headache. He said nothing, and I said nothing as we both came to terms with what our revelations implied. There had been a chance that the attack on the Pale had been unrelated to my letter to Hadvar. Perhaps it still was. But there could be no denying that _somebody_ was interested in us, with _all_ of Hadvar's letters gone missing.

"I have nothing to offer but my word," Hadvar eventually broke the silence in a grave tone, meeting me with a sincerity that made my chest flip. "I _did_ write to you, Celeste - at _every_ opportunity," he vowed. "I knew there would be no reply, yet still I wrote. I was selfish – but the idea of reaching out to you helped ease my loneliness."

"Loneliness?"

He nodded. "I was promoted to Quaestor after Korvanjund – which removed me from infantry duty, to work special assignments with the upper hierarchy..." he reconsidered, shaking his head. "It meant I was always on the move, so I had no return address to give you. And, you were – _are_ ," he corrected; his eyes widened, " _so_ much, to so many, who each demand a claim on you, so even when I was in one place for a few days, I didn't dare hope for a response to reach me. But - you didn't receive _any_ of them?" Hadvar stressed.

"None," I confirmed, for what felt like the tenth time. Frustration sparked within me, and I frowned. "They must have been intercepted. Did you write of anything that our enemies want to know?"

"No, never - but I can think of _plenty_ of people who are desperate for any intelligence to give them an edge in this damned war. Desperate people do desperate things," Hadvar cursed.

My mood darkened as Hadvar's summation honed my confusion into an arrow pointing directly at my sister. After she failed to retrieve me at the Nightgate and Hadvar in the Pale, _would_ she have become that desperate? Would she have organised to snatch his letters before they reached me? And to what end – did they still want to retrieve me that badly? _Why_?

I had no answers, but soon, I would. _Well_ , I thought petulantly, _you are going to her. You are both getting what you want_.

 _Giselle_ , I cursed, looking up to the Gildergreen and the skies beyond, though I didn't really see either. _What do you want from me_ , I questioned the heavens? The clouds above were scattered and puffy, lying low and lined with dark shadows that, if they were to assemble their forces, might have brought snow.

"I'm sorry," Hadvar murmured; guiding me down from the clouds. His hand brushed my chin, and my eyes lowered, finding his. Grounded, my resentment eased.

"I will apologise to you for the rest of my days for causing you a single second of torment," his fingertips drifted down and his hand covered mine, folded on my lap. "I wish I had realised," he stared for a second, brushing my knuckles gently, then glanced up; his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "I would have sent word by some other means."

His thick distress caught in _my_ throat, and I bit my bottom lip to stave off tears on the brink of falling. I could not be mad at Giselle, who was _not_ here to rage at, with Hadvar knelt before me in despair.

 _Be grateful,_ I urged. _He's here, now. With you._

My fingers ghosted his cheek in wonderment, and he stilled. "Peace, Hadvar. It's all right now," I breathed a laugh at his response; my eyes shining with unspent tears as my frustration scattered. "You're _alive_ ," my relief swelled, and I couldn't suppress a giddy smile as I sprang forward and threw my arms around his neck.

Hadvar wrapped his arms around me at once. The tight embrace came on so swiftly that I had the thought he had been ready to hold me at a word. He buried his head in my shoulder, breathing a weighty sigh of contentment that fluttered over my neck.

 _This_ made his presence real for me. I echoed his with a joyous sigh of my own, speckled with traces of delighted, incredulous laughter.

 _He's here_ , was all I could crow. _He's holding me. He did write to me. He_ _ **does**_ _love me._

The cold winds and people of Whiterun whipped around us, but we remained as we were, overtaken by the contentment, the _luxury_ of being in each other's arms.

"Did you mean what you said in front of the Jarl before?" I asked softly. Not that I doubted his word, but I wanted to hear him say it again, to me and only me while we had this precious moment to ourselves.

Hadvar shifted a little, then his lips brushed the shell of my ear.

"Did I mean it when I said I love you?" he murmured.

Somehow, I bit back my gasp when his words, his warm breath, swept over me. He was my aurora, dizzyingly bright and achingly beautiful, chasing away the shadows of my night. All I could reply with was a nod.

He huffed in warm amusement and withdrew, just far enough to meet my gaze.

I stared back, searching his fond, relaxed expression, and a certainty settled in me. How could this have happened? How could we feel such devotion toward one another so swiftly? This kind of love had only ever been the subject of overly-mushy songs they had made us practise at college to use in romantic programmes.

His smile reached his eyes, making them dance. "From the day we met I have loved you," he shook his head, perhaps wondering, as I, that it had happened so fast. "I couldn't stop myself, no matter how I tried to argue that you were too good for me," he grinned, ducking. "I was so relieved when you said you'd come to Riverwood with me," he chuckled. "It was my chance to show you that there is more to me than a soldier's uniform and a list."

His happiness was infectious as ever, and it gave me hope for the future - _our_ future. I brought a hand to his cheek, urging him to look at me again.

"I've missed you so much," I confessed; my fingers brushed through the thick auburn hair behind his ear. "And – I felt it too, on that first day that we met. I didn't know what it was..." I rolled my eyes. "But. I've never...loved anyone before," I arched a small, hesitant smile.

Hadvar closed his eyes, and he trembled as I toyed with the hair at the back of his neck. "Mm," he hummed, then swallowed thickly and leant into my touch. "I was going to say something, but..." he mumbled.

I laughed and withdrew, standing. The air had been cleared, and all was well between us. I would take him through the Cloud district to Adrianne's, and we could talk more of this later, if we felt the need. "My apologies for being such a distraction, _Quaestor_ Reidarsson," I teased.

He fell into step behind me, playfully grasping my waist. I stifled a giggle and stopped, arching an eyebrow at him over my shoulder as I lifted my hands to cover his.

He leaned over the same shoulder and spoke assertively; "You are quite, but I'll let it pass this once, _Lady Dragonborn_. Now," he sighed; his hold relaxed and he lowered his head. "Where were we?" his words brushed my neck.

My cheeks flamed and I couldn't suppress my giggle as the stubble on his chin tickled me. He pushed his nose against me so I would turn my head, then pressed his mouth, hot and purposeful, to the skin under my ear.

My mind blanked; my eyes fluttered closed; my fingers tightened around his hands. "Um," I managed around a swallow.

"Oh, that's right," he stood, released me, stepped forward and flashed me a lopsided, cheeky smile. "Let's get you out of that armour."

* * *

 _A/n: thanks again for the reviews last chapter - glad you're enjoying! Msyendor I love your imaginings - very evocative. originalmagicalartist, thanks again for your kind words. I haven't played Skyrim in oh...coming up on 3 years now! I managed to sink soooooo many hours into it then that I think the quests I enjoyed (or wanted to fix) and the characters I liked the most were branded onto my mind to try and make something of later. The characters are what drive the story for me, so I enjoy developing them and just letting them do their thing. If I find myself drawing a blank regarding any plot particulars, I consult UESP, reddit, etc._


	38. The Extents of Control

_Chapter 38: The Extents of Control_

We all met at the stables before midday.

"Is everything all right?" Lydia murmured as she passed me a small backpack.

I eyed Lydia up and down as I took it. She was dressed in the yellow armour of a Whiterun guard, staring at me worriedly from under one of the standard-issue, open-faced helms. Over her arm was more yellow – another Whiterun cuirass – and in her hand she held a full-faced helmet.

It was very strange to see her dressed in guard colours, and her question made little sense as everything was going to plan. And why the extra armour?

I crossed my brows; "...Yes?" I hazarded.

"With Hadvar," she rolled her eyes. "Are you annoyed he's coming with us?"

" _Lydia_ ," I flushed, glancing around to make sure Hadvar wasn't within hearing range. I wanted them to _like_ each other! I spied him standing before the tall, palomino mare Vilkas had secured for his use, patting its nose and saying something to my shield-brother that I couldn't hear. Watching him across the yard, at ease and now dressed as a guard of Whiterun too, I could easily imagine he was one of Balgruuf's men and not an officer of the Legion; imagine he resided in Whiterun. In such a world, we would spend the evenings together between his shift and my nightly duties with the Companions, or perhaps meet late under the Gildergreen when all was quiet to watch the aurorae dance across the clear night skies through its bleached branches.

The horse nudged Hadvar with its nose and he chuckled, unaware of my attention.

"Oh little one," my housecarl sighed, reminding me she was there. "I needn't have asked. Just _look_ at you."

I hadn't realised I'd been making a _look_. I blushed, and with a blink, the daydream was gone. "Mm," I reached for the saddle of the dappled bay Vilkas had arranged, fastening my bag to give me something other than Lydia's penetrating green gaze to focus on. My bow and lute had already been secured to each side of the mare, the latter wrapped in a pelt for protection. "As it happens, Hadvar _did_ write that he'd survived the Pale- " I added quietly, seeing no reason to keep it from her.

" _What_?"

"- but, _someone_ seems to think it's in the interests of Skyrim, or the war, or that it's a fun _joke_ to steal his letters before they reach me so I will think him captured or dead," I clenched my teeth, tightening the strap I had been fiddling with stiffly as burning indignation rose. The horse didn't seem to notice.

"You think your _sister_ stole Hadvar's letters?" Lydia surmised and ducked, trying to make eye contact.

I closed my eyes, and reminded myself to breathe.

 _It doesn't matter. He's alive. Think forward._

Taking in deep, measured lungfuls of cool air, the raw urge to _FUS_ something or some _one_ subsided. Lydia placed a hand on my shoulder and I opened my eyes, fixing her with a controlled expression.

"I am attempting not to speculate," I managed steadily. "We'll have answers in a day or two," there was no joy or comfort in the statement. "What is that for?" I motioned toward the armour draped over her arm.

Lydia hesitated, then glanced to the yellow cuirass with a puzzled expression.

"Oh," she recovered and held both cuirass and helmet forward. "These are for you."

Looking from it to her, I shook my head. "I want to look Ulfric in the eye as _me_ when I deliver Jarl Balgruuf's message. I have committed no crime; I go as I am."

Lydia reaffirmed her offering. "I told Vilkas you'd say something like that, but he insisted you not be recognised _before_ we reach Windhelm."

"Did he now?" I grumbled. If the order had come from Vilkas, there would be little point in arguing. He always had his reasons, and the stubborn oaf _always_ stood by them. I sighed, taking the yellow cuirass and shrugging it on over my new, studded armour. "Would have been nice if he'd run it past me," I murmured childishly.

"Hey," Lydia smiled supportively. "He's just protecting you."

 _As his wolf ever makes him,_ I inwardly grouched.

I was being incredibly ungrateful, and checked myself at once. Vilkas was my Harbinger and my _friend_ , and not everything he did was directed by his werewolf. Quite the opposite, in fact, if my presence allowed him to pacify the beast within for stretches of time.

"He would rather avoid another Nightgate-level incident, and I am inclined to agree with him," Lydia continued, throwing me a pointed look. "Of course, if you disagree, we could put it to a vote?"

I huffed a laugh, knowing what the outcome would be. "We should probably mount up," I changed the subject quietly.

"You're the boss," she drawled, palming me the helmet.

I smiled sadly at her and put the helmet on. It was one of the full-faced varieties that about half of the local guards chose to wear, though once it was in place I had trouble understanding why they were so partial to them; there was virtually no peripheral vision. I reached back, turning toward my horse and groping to catch a hold of its reins, though it hadn't moved, but as I was I could no longer see it. Cursing, I reasoned I could remove the helmet as soon as we were alone on the road.

My horse snorted at my erratic movements. It was a very large, tall horse, but seemed as placid as any other I had ridden. After checking for myself that the saddle and reins were fastened, I climbed up, feeling as though I was perched on top of a precarious mountain and peering through a small gap between boulders.

I turned the horse around in the yard and directed it toward my party, forcing myself to get used to the limited vision. The men were already mounted and waiting for us by the gates.

Lydia drew her horse up beside me. "Ready for orders, my Thane."

"Quit it," I said quickly, shooting her an amused, sideways look, even though she couldn't hope to see it through the helm. My voice bounced between the metal and my ears, and I made a mental note to speak _quietly._

She cast me a sparkling half smile, nodding for me to precede her. "You heard what the Jarl said – you're to be accompanied by us at all times. Stick to the centre of the convoy. And keep your eyes on our goal, _not_ your boyfriend's backside. In fact, he'd better ride behind you."

" _Lydia_!"

"After you, my Thane," she added innocently.

Making a sound of frustration at her, I clicked the horse into a walk and joined the rest of my entourage as my cheeks flamed. The helmet _was_ good for something, then.

If it was poignant to see Hadvar in Whiterun colours, and strange to see Lydia wearing the same, it was truly _surreal_ to see Vilkas and Farkas dressed that way, without a smudge of kohl around their eyes and their faces clean-shaven. They looked like entirely different men, which made me a little nervous. Suddenly – selfishly – I was relieved to find the wolfish sheen over their silvery orbs. Had it not been there, I wasn't certain I would have known who they were.

As I slowed before them and caught sight of the new bracers on my wrists, I wondered if the same could be said for me? Was it strange for them to see me in this foreign armour, with my features completely obscured?

Hadvar and I had gone to Warmaidens, but the only armour Adrianne had ready that would fit me was a generic, studded affair. Pressed for time, I'd taken it, and shuffled out of my new wolf armour and into the studded set in the back room of Warmaidens – which doubled as their kitchen.

The armour consisted of a tight, sleeveless leather vest and a shoulder pad secured with a strap criss-crossing my collar bone. The kilt was long and reached below my knees, but was split in several places for ease of movement, with strips of hide placed to cover any gaps in the defence, and studded reinforcement down the two panels that protected my thighs. The boots reached up to the bottom of my knees, and buckled along the inside of the leg, but were stiff as they needed to be worn in. The bracers covered wrist to elbow; the forearm panel thicker than the rest and reinforced with the same studs as the kilt. The inner arm had been purposely left thin, to make drawing a bow easier. It was armour, Adrianne had said, that was favoured by hunters.

When I had emerged, Adrianne had narrowed her eyes, sighed wearily, and asked Ulfberth to 'get the step out'. Her husband had wordlessly obeyed, retrieving a low stool from under the counter and placing it in the centre of the shop.

I stood on it, and she had worked hurriedly, sewing and tightening the leather while she and Hadvar had become acquainted, chatting about smithing and the Legion contract, Riverwood and Hadvar's family. When we had emerged from the store there was barely enough time to throw my wolf armour inside Breezehome next door, then we left the city to meet the others.

And, here we were in our costumes, ready to commence our playact. We rode out of Whiterun with naught but instructions passing between us. Were the others nervous, I wondered? They didn't appear to be; their poses were entirely casual - bored even.

 _Windhelm,_ I reminded myself as I tried to emulate Lydia's relaxed posture. _You're riding into the heart of the Stormcloak's city, to speak to Ulfric and face your sister._

This made the butterflies in my stomach worse, but I used them, feeding the fluttery nerves into my role to sharpen my focus. _I am Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn. I can do this._

Vilkas took the lead, with Lydia behind him, myself in the centre, Hadvar behind me, and Farkas at the rear. As we warmed our horses up in silence, I tried to convince myself that it was really Lydia and Vilkas riding before me. With only their backs visible, they could have been any anonymous Whiterun guards.

 _Was_ it deceptive and detrimental to our cause, I wondered, to dress up as guards, even if I didn't hide who I was once we reached our destination? If it was, I did not feel it was borne of ill-will, but necessity. If I showed up in Windhelm with my housecarl, two Companions and a Legion officer, we would only serve to antagonise Stormcloak. Our message was too important for delays. Besides; their pledge to accompany me put them in the service of the Jarl, and so who they were outside of our quest didn't matter. When I thought about it that way, it was almost _fitting_ that they were dressed thus.

Hadvar steered his palomino to ride beside my horse the moment we had passed the other traffic – farmers and merchants – all making their way to Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf's axe was strapped securely behind him.

"So," he flashed me a sideways smile that made my heart hammer. "Do we have a plan?"

I shook my head and raked my helmet off, resting it over the pommel on my saddle. I smiled, relishing in the feel of the cool air as it tugged at my curls and fanned my face, and a cheeky response wound its way out of me. "Improvising our way through Windhelm will be much more fun _._ "

Hadvar laughed, though it escaped as a rush of air. "I was wondering why the General hadn't asked you to join the Legion yet," he murmured.

" _Oh_ ," I lifted my eyebrows, remembering suddenly just how much Hadvar _didn't_ know. "It turns out he doesn't want me," I shrugged.

Hadvar sent me a doubtful look.

"I mean," I reconsidered. "He wrote – after I wrote to him about what happened at the Nightgate Inn," my eyes widened – I had to explain _that_ to him, too. "I believe his words were, 'one Passero daughter is quite enough to deal with'," I intoned loftily, trying to mimic the General's voice.

Hadvar stayed quiet, and when I stole a glance toward him, he looked thoughtful.

He noticed that I was looking at him, and a small smile played on his lips. "Good," he told me in a voice of truth; his eyes victorious. "The further you are from the war, the happier I can be."

I quirked a brow at him. "We are riding to Windhelm to determine Whiterun's position in said war."

"But you are not contracted to the army," Hadvar replied easily. "Once the Jarl's message has been delivered, you may return to your life," he added warmly.

I huffed at the notion. I was less master of my own destiny than he; I had simply been running away from it longer. "I'm the Dragonborn, Hadvar," I murmured, not able to meet his eye as I acknowledged it. I clutched the reins and looked out at the purpled mountains far in the distance across the plain. "Once this message has been delivered..." I trailed off.

 _No_ , I couldn't go directly to High Hrothgar - I _had_ to free my shield-brothers. No matter what happened in Windhelm, I _would_ take Vilkas and Farkas to Ysgramor's tomb, and do whatever was required to seperate their wolves from them.

 _And what then? Will you go to the Greybeards if Whiterun goes to war?_

Frustrated for creating _another_ excuse to delay the inevitable, I shook my head in an attempt to clear the tumult.

"It doesn't matter," I resolved. I had been quiet for some time, and Hadvar's stormy gaze was still expectantly fixed upon me. I turned to meet him with an apologetic smile. I was sorry that I had brought it up; sorry that I couldn't explain what was going through my head properly. Sorry that we would have to leave each other again, and so soon.

"Why don't we live each day as it comes?" he asked hopefully; the weak Frostfall sun played with the red in his hair as he tilted his head toward me amicably.

I resisted the urge to reach out to him, nodding instead. "I would like that."

"As would I," Hadvar replied with a lopsided smile.

"Helm on," Vilkas called over his shoulder.

"He must have heard someone on the road ahead," I murmured to Hadvar. He nodded, easing his reigns back to fall into line.

I settled the guard helmet back in place. Would I have any chance to talk to Hadvar, _properly_ talk to him, on this journey? But of course, it was silly to extend my frustration beyond longing sighs; it wasn't as though we were on holiday. I had to be contented with whatever time we managed to share.

Our group resumed its silent progress. Soon, the sounds of booted feet on the gravel road came to us, though I knew that both Vilkas and Farkas had been hearing their approach for some time.

Vilkas had been right to warn us; I tensed at the multiple footfalls. My gratitude was absolute when the approaching party rounded the rise, and through the slot in my helm I spied the fluttering blue of Stormcloak armour.

My eyes widened. _Why are we not hiding in the woods,_ my thoughts immediately clambered?

I scanned the group for Giselle. She was not amongst them; they were all too tall and heavily built to be my twin. Perhaps that was why Vilkas hadn't called for us to leave the road and wait for them to pass. There were six soldiers, assembled around a queue of three others who didn't wear any armour.

It took me a moment to realise they were prisoners.

None of my party spoke; the air was thick with tension. But we were dressed as Whiterun guards; we were still within the boundary of Whiterun Hold. Whiterun was neutral in the war. They had their business, and we had ours. We just had to play this out.

The Stormcloaks drew nearer and I got a better look at the prisoners. Two men, one woman, filthy with dirt and wearing the tattered remains of drab, scratchy-looking tunics. Their feet were bare and hands were bound, with their bindings linked by a chain and the end held by the Stormcloak at the head of the pack. As they grew ever-nearer, I recognised calm defiance in the eyes of the woman and one of the men, but on the other man's face were trails of wet tears, making clean lines through the grime. He looked to be about forty with thick, dusty hair brushing his furrowed brow and light brown eyes full of more tears; devoid of hope.

 _You can't help them._ My heart twisted with guilt as I looked away.

Where were they being led? Surely Stormcloak prisoners should go to Windhelm, yet these three were being taken in the opposite direction?

Our parties each made room for the other as we passed; our single file shifting to the far left of the road to let the larger group ease along the right. My conscience argued with common sense as the soldiers and prisoners filed past. I glanced down to see the sad prisoner glance up to me fearfully, desperately, but he said nothing.

Then his eyes flickered away and landed on the next of our party.

"Hadvar!" he shrieked hoarsely; a mixture of horror and relief.

 _Gods, no,_ my eyes slammed shut.

"Help us! They're taking us to -"

"Keep it down," quick as a whip, the nearest Stormcloak shoved the blunt handle of her war axe into the man's gut. "And keep moving."

The prisoner groaned; no further calls for assistance were made. Behind me, I could have sworn I heard Hadvar mutter a curse. Behind _him_ , I heard Farkas grumble something about mouthy Imperials.

 _They're Imperial soldiers,_ I realised, biting my bottom lip in indecision. _They know Hadvar, or one of them does. They might have been captured when the Pale encampment was attacked._

 _But...if they were at the Pale...then whatever is happening to them is your fault._

We shifted back into the middle of the road; the Stormcloak party behind us and retreating. All I had to do was keep moving; keep reminding myself that we were on a mission, one bigger than these three people. We couldn't risk exposure. I couldn't save them.

I had to try.

Swiftly, I turned my horse and clicked my heels into her flank so she would catch up the departing group.

"What – _no_!" Hadvar hissed urgently through his teeth.

I ignored him, raking the helm off my head as I rode. I could hear all four of my entourage galloping behind me.

As I neared the Stormcloaks, those at the back turned to watch us. I didn't miss the widening of eyes or the confusion that marred another's brow.

Setting my face to scowl, I pulled my reigns back and did my best to imitate my sister's snip as my horse skidded to a halt. "Where are you taking these prisoners?"

The remainder of the Stormcloak party turned to face me, as did the sad Imperial prisoner who had called out to Hadvar. The other two prisoners remained as they were; their backs to me, though I could tell that they were listening intently.

The Stormcloak nearest; a large, thick man with white-blonde hair, spoke up. "Apologies, Commander Passero. I thought you were in Riften – didn't realise it was _your_ party – "

"My whereabouts and mission are between myself and our Jarl," I cut him off. _Commander Passero_? "Answer the question."

"At once, Ma'am," he straightened, and I could have sworn that I saw a flash of _fear_ in his eyes.

 _What have you become, Giselle?_ My heart plummeted as I realised that my sister might not, at this moment, be in Windhelm. If she was in _Riften_ , I might not get the answers I wanted after all.

 _Forget her,_ I commanded. _Go to Windhelm for Whiterun, not Giselle._

In the corner of my eye, Farkas and Lydia pulled their horses up close beside me. Vilkas and Hadvar must have been behind me; Hadvar gratefully out of sight, as he had been recognised, and named.

"They are being taken from Windhelm to Commander Stone-Fist for secondary questioning," the Stormcloak doing all the talking reported. "He is stationed at the camp at Falkreath-"

"I know where Stone-Fist is," I cut in witheringly, though I had not the foggiest of who he spoke. "Your name, soldier?"

"Gjeldsson, Ma'am."

" _Gjeldsson_ ," I tested. "Explain to me why _six_ of our number have been assigned to escort _three_ measly, unarmed, teary-eyed prisoners."

"Commander Thrice-Pierced wrote the orders, Ma'am."

"Of course he did," I murmured, unimpressed. "And _why_ would _anybody_ question him," I added musically.

 _Where are you going with this, Celeste,_ a small, panicked voice asked within?

Truthfully, I was still working that out, and groping for opportunities. The Stormcloaks had assumed I was my sister, as I had wanted them to - so now I had to roll with it.

"You needn't bother yourself on our account, Ma'am," another Stormcloak spoke up; the woman who had hit the prisoner with her axe handle.

I glanced to her, narrowing my eyes in Giselle's manner. She had scowled at me enough times during our lives for me to adequately recall and emulate it precisely. "Not _bother_ myself with a waste of resources? Pray," I mocked, "explain to me why Thrice-Pierced was unable to complete the questioning himself?"

The woman looked uncomfortable as she glanced to one of her peers, then back to me. "Commander Stone-Fist always manages the final...questioning of traitors."

 _Final_ questioning. This kept getting better and better, didn't it? They were being led to torture, and death.

I turned to Lydia, maintaining my unimpressed expression. She cast me a bored look, though I could see questions – _desperate_ questions – in her eyes.

"The Commander is particularly interested in this stock, given they were captured during our victory in the Pale," the soldier continued, her voice slightly more defensive than before.

They _had_ been at the Pale with Hadvar. "I see," I murmured.

"Is there a problem, Commander Passero?" the first soldier who had spoken – Gjeldsson, wasn't it? – asked. "I...have the orders here, if you wish to-" he dug into his armour.

"That won't be necessary," I held my hand up. "And neither will your escort," I added as my heart thumped wildly in my chest. _This is it._ "I have a delicate bone to pick with Stone-Fist," I mused, spinning my tale as I spoke it. "We will take your quarry the rest of the way, and you may return to your posts," I reached down, intending for one of them to hand me the chain linking the prisoners.

"Uh..." Gjeldsson glanced to his peers; uncertain of how to respond.

Vilkas coughed from somewhere behind me, but I ignored him. I had to play this through now that I had started it. I gave Gjeldsson a steady stare and murmured placidly; "I gave you an order, soldier."

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Ma'am," the female soldier spoke up in his stead; her voice officious. "Commander Thrice-Pierce's orders are for the six of us to take these prisoners to Falkreath, and...well," she crossed her brows at me. "He outranks you, Ma'am. You should continue on your mission, and we'll continue on ours."

Lydia cleared her throat, leaning toward me. "Apologies, Commander, but the officer has a point; we _are_ expected," she said through a bit of a strain.

I flashed her a frustrated look.

"This lot are of no consequence. They'll be dead in a twoday," the female soldier added.

My head whipped back to her as the other Stormcloak soldiers chuckled with varying degrees of uneasiness. The sad prisoner let out a sob of despair.

" _FUS_ ," I shouted.

With cries of alarm, both Stormcloaks and prisoners were flung across the road. Before any could rise, an arrow whizzed past my ear and thudded into the throat of the Stormcloak who had callously talked of the prisoners' deaths.

The sight of her choking spurred me into action and I grabbed my bow. I caught sight of Hadvar with his bow raised; his eyes narrowed and settled on the woman as he reached back for a second arrow.

More arrows flew around me – Lydia and Vilkas fired – and Farkas leapt off his mount, dual-blades drawn and swinging as the remaining Stormcloaks scrambled to their feet.

It was over before I had time to place an arrow; Farkas took down two, and arrows from my companions took out the rest.

I gripped my bow handle too-tightly, surveying the scene. The blood drained from my face; six Stormcloaks, dead in an instant. Three Imperial prisoners remained, one making incoherent, panicky sounds while the other two rose to their feet, glancing around tentatively. Farkas reached for them with a dagger, and both leapt back. He fixed them with an unimpressed glare, grabbed the chain joining them, and wordlessly cut their bindings.

Hands landed on my arms and I was spun in the saddle. My bow fell from my grasp, thunking into the gravelly road.

"What were you _thinking_?" Vilkas thundered, shaking me, his eyes burning with fury. "Are three prisoners worth more than the people of Whiterun – of the whole of _Skyrim_?"

His eyes flashed amber and I stilled, shocked into muteness. My gaze drifted back to the road; the mess I had caused.

"What's done is done," Hadvar guided his horse between us, grasping Vilkas' arm and removing his hand.

Vilkas grimaced, his eyes blazing with accusation. "That it is," he grumbled, guiding his horse away.

"No point in arguing over it now," Hadvar muttered as my shield-brother rode off.

 _What have I done?_ I was so _stupid_ ; I'd put _all_ of their lives at risk. "I'm so sorry," I murmured quickly.

"Hey," Hadvar drew my focus to him, gently brushing my arm. "It's okay. It's over."

I looked up to him, wary of the reprimand I would find; that I _deserved_ , but it wasn't to be seen in Hadvar's eyes.

"I don't know what came over-"

" _Don't_ ," he cut in firmly, taking my hand. "Don't torture yourself. Remember, love – we have a job to do. We'll clean this up and..." he glanced over the mess of bodies on the road, then nodded purposefully; his expression hardened. "We'll carry on to Windhelm, as planned. Try to forget this happened."

I watched him, hazy with disbelief. He was so calm; spoke so steadily in the face of fresh horror. Were scenes such as these every day occurrences for him - for anyone contracted to the Legion?

"You – _you_...Divines, you..."

My eyes drifted toward the noise; the sad male prisoner was muttering, standing beside my horse, pointing a trembling finger at _me_. "You're _her_. You'll kill us all," he accused, his lower lip shuddering even as Farkas cut his bindings.

"She just _saved_ you, you worthless piece of-" Farkas grumbled.

"Diotan," Hadvar called with some authority; I had to assume it was the man's name. "She's...not who you think she is," Hadvar let go of my hand.

Diotan's head whipped to Hadvar and his dismay turned into relief. " _Hadvar_. I thought I must have gone mad, but it _is_ you."

I blinked; it was all I could manage in the face of the man's terror of me. No, _Giselle._ What exactly had she...?

Another hand, this one more tentative, brushed my arm.

"Ever your father's daughter, little one," Lydia whispered, green eyes sympathetic. "Are you all right?"

Swallowing a thickness in my throat, I nodded. I mean – I _wasn't_ all right – but I would have to be.

The sound of boots meeting gravel came to me; both Hadvar and Vilkas dismounted. Hadvar approached the fearful Diotan and Vilkas stopped before the nearest dead Stormcloak, put his hands on his hips and stared down at the body.

I found my voice, but it was small and subdued. "She made me... _so angry,_ " I admitted, watching as Farkas settled beside his brother. They fell into conversation, though the wind carried their words away from me.

"Me too," Lydia sighed. "I can't believe you didn't use the thu'um on her sooner."

I huffed bleakly, turning to face her. "I didn't know I was going to do it at all. It just...happened."

Lydia shrugged. "Using thu'um by instinct is probably part of being Dragonborn, right?"

"I don't know," I admitted, shuddering as I turned away. Hadvar was talking to the prisoners, and Vilkas and Farkas were crouched over the fallen Stormcloak in front of them.

"What are they...?" I whispered, cutting myself off when I realised that they were stripping the dead soldier of his armour. I grimaced.

"Oh, for Shor's sake," Lydia muttered, spotting them the same moment as me. "Come on. The sooner we get this done," she intoned, unimpressed.

She dismounted. Realising that she meant for us to help them, I followed, staggering as my boots hit the gravel, placing my hands on my horse's flank for a moment. I closed my eyes; breathed deeply, and prayed for steadiness to return.

When I felt I wouldn't fall, I opened my eyes and joined Vilkas, Farkas and Lydia. Hadvar was busy giving directions to the freed prisoners, advising them of which routes to avoid on their return to Solitude, lest they be captured again.

Vilkas and Farkas had managed to tug the blue cuirass over the first of the fallen Stormcloaks, but there were still five other men and women to disrobe.

I knelt beside Lydia, staring down at the glazed, lifeless eyes of the Stormcloak woman who had made me so angry. She had been doing her duty, and I had...well, I had lost control, hadn't I? She was dead because...of me.

That simply wasn't good enough. I _had_ to go to the Greybeards, and soon – and not only to start down the path that would teach me how to resolve Skyrim's dragon problem. I couldn't remain in Skyrim with the power of the thu'um at my disposal, with no idea how to control it or my impulses.

"I assume we are doing this to obscure the identity of the deceased when they are discovered?" I asked Lydia flatly to fill the silence. We rolled the soldier's blue armour up and shuffled heavy, floppy arms out of the sleeves.

"I'd say so," she groaned, angling the woman to slide the blue fabric out from under her.

Folding her armour in a pile beside her, I averted my eyes. They came to rest on Hadvar, who was approaching us with the female member of the rescued prisoners.

"Lydia," Hadvar crouched, his tone efficient. "Did you bring any spare armour with you?"

Lydia knelt back on her heels, shaking her head with a frown. "Sorry, no."

Why-? _Oh_. He wanted to prevent the prisoners from being _recognised_ as prisoners as they travelled. I glanced between them.

"I'm...wearing two layers of armour," I supplied hopefully, tugging at my Whiterun cuirass. "She can have this, and – maybe these boots?" I motioned toward the pile of armour we were assembling.

Both Hadvar and Lydia looked uncertain, and I rolled my eyes. "I'll keep the blasted guard helm," I added, hastily unstrapping and then lifting the Whiterun cuirass over my head.

"That will look ridiculous with your studded armour – make anyone suspicious," Lydia murmured. "Better if you use one of the Stormcloak helmets. None are full-faced, but that's better than sticking out."

"Whatever you think is best," I handed the cuirass to the Imperial soldier. She was of average height and thin, with bronzed skin and dark, wary eyes. It _should_ fit her, I assessed, though it would be a little on the short side. But then, it had hung too long on me. Perhaps it would fit her properly.

"Thank you," the woman murmured, meeting my eyes for a second before turning to the road between us. "I owe you my life, Lady Dragonborn."

"Oh," I blinked in surprise, glancing to Lydia for help. I hadn't saved their lives. I had acted on impulse, created chaos, and my entourage had swiftly cleaned it up. Were it not for them, we would _all_ be dead.

My housecarl was no help; she shrugged then turned back to her grizzly task.

I looked to Hadvar next. He raised his eyebrows, nodding to the woman and giving me a small, supportive smile.

Returning his smile, and his nod, I faced her. "And I owe you mine," I decided on a path.

The soldier crossed her brows, glancing up. "Lady Dragonborn?" she asked uncertainly.

I retained my smile, though inwardly I trembled. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Dantius, my Lady. Malana Dantius."

"Officer Dantius," I dipped my head courteously toward her. "Every day you fight Ulfric Stormcloak you save me, and the sons and daughters of Skyrim who haven't been led astray by his cause," I explained, "or bewitched by his _lies_ ," I added bitterly. What _was_ my sister's part in his scheme? It was frustrating to acknowledge that I might not come to realise the full of her involvement, if she was on a mission elsewhere.

She was one of Ulfric's _Commanders_? How was that even possible?

Malana seemed to understand, and bowed in respect. "I always had trouble believing that the Dragonborn had sided with the Stormcloaks. You _are_ with us."

"I am with Skyrim," I corrected and glanced away so I didn't have to address the questions in her eyes. I was certainly not with the Stormcloaks, and the General wanted me to stay _out_ of the Empire's affairs.

I spied my shield-brothers a little way down the road, tirelessly hauling dead Stormcloaks in the direction of the White river. Vilkas and Farkas were in their regular armour once more; they must have been wearing their favoured armour underneath the Whiterun armour all this time. The two male prisoners, dressed already in their yellow cuirasses and generic bits and pieces from the Stormcloaks, were helping them.

I shivered unwittingly. Vilkas was annoyed at me still; I could tell by the glower he sent my way when he sensed my attention.

"You're not...? But then, why save us?" Malana asked finally, quietly. "Why risk yourself, and your friends-?"

I looked to her, uncertain of how to explain. _Because it is my fault your garrison was attacked?_ No.

Something settled on my shoulders. I glanced sideways; Hadvar was beside me and had draped an arm around me.

"Because it was the right thing to do," he supplied steadily. "Had all of us half the courage of our Lady Dragonborn, we would have this war won by next Sundas," he jostled, flashing me a proud, devoted look.

I was grateful for his help; his words carried a tone of finality about them, but still I flushed, because what he said couldn't be further from the truth. If the Legion was full of people like me, we'd all be _dead_ by Sundas, perhaps sooner.

Officer Dantius murmured an agreement and bowed her farewell as the other two prisoners joined her.

"I don't expect we'll see you back in Solitude any time soon, if you're...protecting the Dragonborn?" the male prisoner whose name I didn't know asked Hadvar.

His arm still purposefully wound around me, Hadvar tilted his head, wearing a secretive smile. "We are assigned where our Emperor sees fit. Today, I accompany the Dragonborn, and tomorrow...?" he shrugged.

 _Tomorrow_ , the word stung me. I barely heard the prisoners' farewells, nodding and smiling where I assumed was appropriate as I settled under Hadvar's arm and wound mine around his back. Now, and in Helgen, and through his letters, he had been my rock; a calm centre during the raging storm. The _true_ hero.

When the soldiers were on their way, I turned to thank him, but words and training failed me. How was it that I could instantly spin a tale to face off against six Stormcloaks, but became tongue-tied when trying to locate truths to tell the man I loved?

Hadvar turned with me, smiling softly; his arm shifted soothingly across my back.

"Does every day with you have to be this terrifying?" he asked pensively as he tucked a few fallen curls behind my ear.

I with a huff that carried no humour, I groaned, lowering my forehead to his chest. "Hadvar – take me away from this madness," the words tumbled from my lips in a yearning whisper before I had thought them through.

Hadvar drew me closer, embracing me properly. "Don't," he chuckled quietly; his lips pressed gently to the top of my head. " _Please_."

"Don't what?" I murmured, settling, pressing my ear to his chest and closing my eyes. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._

"Don't _tempt_ me-"

"Break it up. We need to keep moving."

My shoulders fell as Vilkas' voice cut through our moment.

"Right," Hadvar took a step back, glancing to Vilkas as he cleared his throat. "Are we taking the Stormcloak armour?"

"Yes. We'll figure out what to do with it when we set up camp," Vilkas answered over his shoulder, moving toward his horse. He hesitated as he reached for his mare. " _If_ we make it to camp."

I gave his back a hardened look, and resolved to speak to him later about what had happened. For now, my shield-brother was right; we had to get moving.

–

As we rode away the afternoon and the road grew rockier and steeper, the air grew drier and colder, and the wind, gustier. I might have hated the Whiterun guard helmet, but the hide one I now wore couldn't protect my face from the cold.

Tiny flecks of snow dusted my nose and cheeks, rubbing them red and raw as we turned an ascending corner. The others seem so unaffected by the weather that I tried to hide it.

But there was no hiding anything I felt from Vilkas and Farkas; they must have sensed my discomfort.

"Might be a storm on its way," Vilkas called over his shoulder, still in the lead. The hours of riding seemed to have mollified him. "Be on the look out for somewhere to camp."

Lydia made a sound of relief, and Farkas called forward; "I can smell smoke. Might be an inn?"

"And it might be better if we're not seen at an inn," Vilkas grumbled. "We camp in the wilds."

I glanced to Hadvar, but he offered no protest. He returned a hasty sideways glance, then spoke up. "There's a cliff face up ahead. We could look for a cave."

"Caves mean bears in these parts," Lydia reminded him dryly.

"Bears aren't a problem," Farkas drawled, just as dryly.

Vilkas _whoa_ 'd his horse and held up his hand for us to do the same. "What do you think, Harbinger?"

My shoulders slumped.

" _Harbinger_?" Hadvar asked, quietly curious.

Even though I doubted he could see it, I gave Vilkas an unimpressed look. "I made you Harbinger up at Dragonsreach, is what I think," I told him; my words chattering through my teeth.

"Perhaps," Vilkas replied gruffly. "But it wouldn't be wise to call you anything else out here, particularly if there's an inn nearby."

 _Oh._ I looked down as my face reddened. _Of course._ "As long as there's a fire, I don't care where we set up."

"Cave it is," Vilkas decided promptly, pressing his heels to his mare's flank to set her back in motion. "We can hide a fire better in a cave," he muttered. His horse recommenced its slow clop along the road, and we all followed suit.

Hadvar remained riding beside me, and leaned in a little closer to speak. "If there is a bear-"

"My shield-brothers will handle it," I finished for him, hoping to convey reassurance. I could tell that he was thinking about the _last_ bear we had encountered. "Really," I doubled my smile, as I thought about what I could tell him that wouldn't elude to my brothers' _gifts_. "They are Companions," I glanced ahead, toward Vilkas. "Half of their contracts are to rid client's houses of wild animals that have decided to take up residence."

Hadvar's eyes widened and he let out a puff of air that misted before him, but said no more.

As it happened, we didn't need to hunt down a cave, or rid it of any disagreeable inhabitants. We crossed the junction we had hoped to reach before setting up camp as we turned north; ascended a small crest flanked by tall, straight evergreen trees, and over the roaring of the river to our right we heard another sound; a loud, wooden crashing, as though the trees were fighting one another.

"A mill," Farkas announced. "Vilkas?"

"Hmm," Vilkas considered, signalling for halt. "Lydia?" he called.

Lydia immediately reached for her map. After a beat, she announced, "Mixwater. We've made really good time."

"Do we stop here?" Vilkas asked. "There's only one worker."

"A woman," Farkas added. "On her own, by the sounds."

I closed my eyes and bit my tongue; they would not say anything that could truly expose them. Lydia and Hadvar would assume...something else. They'd never think that my brothers were sniffing out what lay ahead.

Lydia shrugged. "You seem to know more about this place than I do. It's your call."

"Where are the other workers?" Hadvar mused. I glanced to him; he was frowning, his eyes fixed on a point before us. "It takes more than a single person to work a lumber mill."

Turning back to the sound, I spied the great, churning water wheel through the trees. "Maybe we can ask her?"

We pushed on; Vilkas signalled for silence. The prospect of sleeping indoors was greater than my caution; if my shield-brothers weren't worried, then I had no reason to fear.

As we approached the sawmill, Hadvar smoothly guided his horse before mine, and when we drew to a halt, he positioned his mare in front of mine, blocking my view of the lumberjack; the woman Farkas had sensed. Perhaps he just wanted to confuse our numbers, but I took his lead and lowered my eyes as though I was over tired, hoping that the woman wouldn't see my face.

Vilkas dismounted and took control. I tried to listen, but caught little of their conversation. Their tones were friendly enough, suggesting that all would be well, and soon. Still, Hadvar remained where he was, and I was relieved, for my sake as well as the mill worker's. So long as she didn't know or remember anything about me, everybody would be safe, should she be questioned.

Vilkas returned to us momentarily. I craned my head around Hadvar's shoulder; Vilkas seemed pleased, and the woman had turned back to her solitary work, lifting enormous logs up onto the lumber saw.

"I have some good news," he said quietly, cracking a half-smile. "Gilfre's workers have left to fight in the war, which means," he nodded beyond us, "she has an empty worker's house not far from here that we can make use of for the night."

"That's _wonderful_ news," Lydia breathed out a laugh.

"For _us_ , perhaps," Vilkas added pointedly, then flicked his head toward his brother. "Get up there and help her with those trees, brother."

"Eh?" Farkas grunted.

The smaller brother raised his eyebrows and explained slowly. "She's working the mill on her own. Has been for some time. Least we can do is lend her some muscle, hmm?"

After a pause I heard Farkas' booted feet hit the gravel path. I turned; he'd dismounted, though he didn't look happy. "We?" he grumbled. "Where's this _we_?"

"Stop your moaning," Vilkas commanded, crossing his arms. "She's nice. You'll like her," he added with an amused lilt.

"Remind me to thank you later," Farkas shouldered past his brother.

I bit my bottom lip; fondness for the pair swept over me as Vilkas turned back to us.

"As for you lot, the worker's cottage is back there," he nodded again, in the same direction as before. "Food and rest are your only orders," he said in the tone of a guard captain.

Perhaps that was the story he had told the lumberjack – this Gilfre – that he was our commanding officer.

We moved. I led my mare after Lydia's, and Hadvar followed me.

Soon enough I made out a heavily-overgrown garden surrounding a rough-looking wood and thatch building.

 _It's a windbreak, if nothing else._ I shuddered as another gust swept straight through my armour.

Vilkas led his and Farkas' horse to the side of the worker's house, tying their reins to a waist-high rail running alongside the low, wood plank porch.

I turned to dismount; my movements stiff on account of the cold and long ride. I managed to climb down from the tall horse without stumbling and tied her reins off with the other four horses. When I turned back to retrieve my belongings, I stopped short. Hadvar had already seen to it, and was standing before me with my pack over one shoulder, my bow over his other, and my lute held out toward me. I smiled as a rush of delight bubbled through me. He passed me my lute, then held out his now freed elbow.

"To our lodgings, my Lady," he returned my smile, his cadence haughty.

The tone _didn't_ suit him. With a quiet laugh, I placed my hand on his elbow as though he was escorting me to the dinner table, and huddled close, grateful for his warmth.

"I'm glad you bought a new lute," Hadvar commented as we sauntered toward the cottage. "You were so upset to lose your other, back at Helgen."

I scoffed. "This," I shrugged the shoulder my lute was on, "is _barely_ a lute," I told him, wanting to stay light. I had tried to put the memory of the beautiful lute my father had gifted behind me, and didn't want to dredge up its, or his, loss now.

Hadvar smiled, but seemed perplexed.

"It's a practise instrument," I explained, turning back to the cottage. All seemed dark beyond the front door. "Was all I could afford, when I arrived," I mused. "I haven't gotten around to replacing it yet."

A step before the doorway, Hadvar stopped and eased me around to face him. His tone was merry; "Then I will make good on my promise, and buy you a new lute. We _did_ survive Helgen, after all," he raised an eyebrow at me.

I couldn't stop a flush as the notion of an expensive present settled between us. "That we did. But," now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow, "you don't need to buy me a new lute."

Hadvar chuckled and shifted, leading me into the cottage. "Perhaps it would be my pleasure to do so?"

I cast him a wary, sideways glance, wondering if he was serious. Lutes – _decent_ lutes – cost a lot, and I knew that he sent most of his pay back to his family. They were doing much better financially with the Warmaidens contract, but still – the prospect of his family going without some necessity so I could have a fancy lute did not appeal to me.

"Let's...talk about it," I hushed, stopping to take in our surrounds. I couldn't think about lutes and everything else I had lost right now.

 _This is nice,_ was my first thought of both the location, and the company. _If not for the armour, and the impending journey to my enemy, this could almost be considered a holiday._

Hadvar found my hand and twined our fingers together. If I allowed myself to live in the moment, it _was_ nice. I glanced around the run down, almost empty common room of the worker's cottage, and a contentment settled in me. It was cold, but that was nothing that a fire in the dry, empty hearth couldn't fix. We were out of the wind and snow. We were safe. Nobody knew we were here, but for the lone woman who was being assisted – or perhaps being kept check of – by Farkas, and she didn't know who I was. We could rest here; we could _sleep_ here. Not that the twins would sleep – and that would make it even safer for the rest of us to.

"I love it," I said, before realising that I had said anything. I clapped my free hand over my mouth and muffled a laugh as Hadvar, Vilkas and Lydia all turned to look at me; their expressions ranging from incredulous to entertained.

"It's no Jorrvaskr," Vilkas drawled in the tone he reserved for his own personal brand of amusement. "But, I'm glad that you approve...Harbinger."

I raked the hide helmet from my head, and threw it, pleased that his mood had improved. "Don't call me that," I muttered in a strained voice.

Vilkas actually _laughed_ as he caught the helmet. Yes, he was in a _much_ better mood.

"What did they do, _ransack_ the place before they left?" Lydia clipped; less than impressed. She had her hands on her hips before a large, overturned table with chairs scattered haphazardly around it. With a groan, she leaned over to lift the table back up onto its legs.

I hastened to her side, to help.

"It's not _so_ bad," Hadvar commented, setting chairs underneath the rough-scrubbed, heavy wooden table. "Better than a cave reeking of bear, or worse."

Vilkas was crouched before the fireplace, assembling a pyre. "We were lucky. Perhaps the Gods _are_ smiling on us today," he murmured thoughtfully.

I crossed my brows at him; what was going on in his head? Despite a lightness of tone, there was a melancholy to him, if you knew where to look. Was his wolf tormenting him?

Lydia spoke up before I could resolve how to respond.

"Honestly Vilkas, don't start preaching; I've had _far_ too long a day," she groaned, arching her back. I startled as a couple of muscles popped back into place, but she didn't seem to care.

Vilkas glanced over his shoulder; that trace of a half-smile on his lips. "You won't hear any sermons from me, Lydia," he assured; his silvery gaze shifted to rest on me. "But I won't say no to a hymn or two from our little song bird, if you're not too tired?"

I was only a little sore from the ride, but it was nothing that a potion couldn't fix. I nodded swiftly. His wolf _was_ giving him trouble. "Of course. But, let's clean up our home for tonight, first."

–

" _Saplings sprout from spring soil, Shapers shape them with great toil,  
But none dared touch the bark of thee, The Acorn destined for Elden Tree..._"

The simple tune was a good piece to warm up with, demanding little of me.

My audience were busy with tasks of their own – preparing food, organising weapons, talking in hushed voices. To the untrained eye, Vilkas seemed unchanged to the untrained - perhaps just a little less on edge - but I could tell he was grateful for the music. Lydia had rarely heard me sing, and the proud glances she sent my way now and then reminded me much of the looks my father had often worn when I had performed.

Whenever I caught Hadvar observing me, his expression ranged from curious to thoughtful, as though what I was singing reminded him of something else. It took me several minutes to realise this was the first time he had heard me sing; _properly_ sing. Our dance on the bridge didn't count.

Anxiety shot through me; fluttery nerves, irrationally borne of fear. For a half a song, I was keenly aware of his notice, barely able to focus on what I was singing, and gave up on the lyrics, picking out a whole verse on my lute while I stared at the strings as though I was a novice all over again.

 _This is Hadvar,_ I attempted reason. _He isn't judging you._

Of course he wasn't. But, I mused, I _wanted_ to be recognised for my performance; wanted him to be moved by my offering. I wanted him to sit, distracted out of his task. I wanted him to _hear_ me.

 _Then calm down. Sing for yourself,_ I instructed curtly; my inner-voice carrying enough of Dean Ateia's tone to make me pay attention. _Sing whatever makes you happy, and the world will be happy with you._

Rolling my eyes at the memory of her obscure lectures, I glanced up. Lydia and Hadvar were both busy at the table, murmuring in low voices. They hadn't noticed the lapse in my calm.

I caught Vilkas' eye. He was watching me; his expression wary, obviously having sensed everything.

I smiled at him as I strummed the closing chords of _The Fall of Queen Nurnhilde_ , trying to push away the feelings and rally my training; my confidence. I chose _The Sea it Rises_ as my next number; a shanty, whose lively melody never failed to lift the spirits.

" _All hands to halyards, hoist away! Set sails to full and no delay!  
The course we set we must sail true, Or sink ourselves in the briny blue!_"

Lydia and Hadvar both hesitated and glanced up, clearly surprised by the change in mood. Vilkas only narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously.

They all made me laugh, and I wound the laughter into my performance.

–

"Can I apologise for what I did today, Vilkas?"

I settled next to my shield-brother, leaning against the outer wall of the cottage before casting him a hopeful glance. It was late; Vilkas had retreated outside a few minutes earlier, and I'd seen it as my chance – possibly my only chance – to address what had happened today, and to discuss our plans for Ysgramor's tomb.

Vilkas was gazing at the bright stars framed by the silhouettes of the trees either side of the cottage. The corner of his mouth turned down, but his eyes remained fixed on the heavens.

" _You're_ sorry?" he murmured, quietly perplexed. "I shook you like a leaf, yelled at you, and you're apologising to me?"

"I put everybody at risk," I looked up to the heavens; to the dark, endless shadows beyond the tree line. "Perhaps I needed to be reminded of that," I added.

Vilkas huffed. "Perhaps, sister. But that is no excuse for me to lay hands on you. My wolf..." he trailed off. "But no. I won't hide behind excuses. It was wrong of _me_ ," he sighed. "And I am very sorry."

Warily, I glanced at him. "What did it do to you?" I prompted, turning back to him; part curiosity, part fear.

He glowered sideways, but when I didn't look away, eventually answered; "It laughed at me."

"At _you_?"

"Mm," Vilkas gazed up again. "It mocks me. Your shout reminded me that in the heat of the moment, our...instincts will take hold."

Shame coursed through me. I had put us in danger, and then his wolf had twisted my blunder to ridicule him. Of _course_ Vilkas had been furious.

"And, being the _beast_ that I am," Vilkas continued disparagingly, "for a single, horrible moment, my rage spilled onto you."

"I'm fine," I sighed. "You would never hurt me."

"You are so certain?"

"Yes," I affirmed smoothly. "Whereas I..." I huffed bleakly. "Well. _You_ at least have a measure of control over _your_ beast."

"Only because of you," Vilkas reminded me.

I closed my eyes to reign back a rising frustration. I was trying to apologise and Vilkas was leading me around in circles. Silence fell between us, and for a time the only sounds were the whispering pine needles as the snowy gusts buffeted them, and the river and churning water wheel beyond.

"Are you okay?" I asked him eventually, opting to keep my eyes closed.

I heard him shuffle against the cottage. "I am. It seems an age since I heard you sing, and your music has quietened the howling," he explained. "Are _you_ okay?" he countered.

Was I? Yes. I was fine. The ride had distanced me from what I had done, and my music had eased me, too. I was happy to be here, now, in this house with my friends. I wasn't at all concerned about the morrow; about facing my enemy, or that I could learn nothing of my sister and why she had betrayed our family, before I went to the Greybeards.

I hugged my arms and avoided answering, wary that it would make the rest of the conversation about _me_ if I did _._ The grinding noise of the lumber saws came to me.

"Is Farkas working the mill?" I asked, glancing up and frowning at the darkness. "Why hasn't he come back yet?"

Vilkas' eyes were on me, but I kept mine trained on the sounds of the mill.

"I doubt we'll see him until morning," Vilkas murmured.

"Oh," I frowned. Some instruction must have passed between them which I had missed, when Vilkas had told him to help the lumberjack. "I suppose there is no harm in it," I added quietly, mostly to myself. "It's not like he needs the sleep."

Again I felt rather than saw Vilkas' regard. This time I turned to face him. The sheen over his eyes reflected little in the black night, for the moons had yet to rise; he was a man made of shadows.

"There's something else," he murmured suspiciously. "Something you want, or you wouldn't have left soldier-boy's side to come out into the cold."

I raised my eyebrows at his _superior senses_. "Can't I _talk_ to you any more, brother?"

" _Celeste_."

"All right," I rolled my eyes. "I want to talk about what happens after Windhelm," I cut to it.

"You want to plan?" Vilkas seemed unfazed and turned back to the skies, leaning his head against the wall. "I thought your strategies relied on _improvisation_."

I cast him a withering look, and he smirked. "What happens after Windhelm will depend on what happens _in_ Windhelm, I think," he murmured.

"It doesn't, really," I wished he would talk to me instead of the sky, but his attentions were aloof. Perhaps he was trying to relax his mind; even if he couldn't sleep, it was late, after all. I adopted his pose, gazing up. "Once the message has been delivered, I would like to take you and Farkas to Ysgramor's tomb before we return to Whiterun," I told him steadily.

Vilkas _hmm_ ed but said nothing.

A wary sideways glance at my shield-brother confirmed that he was frowning.

I bit my bottom lip as I inspected his face, uncertain of what this expression meant. "I wish I could read you, the way you can read me," I mumbled.

Vilkas huffed humourlessly, looking down and kicking the toe of his boot against the wooden porch planks. "No, you don't."

"Why? What are you thinking?" hugging my arms tighter about me, I nudged him with my elbow.

Vilkas continued to inspect the floor boards. "I'm trying not to," he owned, flashing me a sideways glance. "You should go back inside. It's too cold out here for you."

"I'm fine," I evaded loftily.

"I can hear your teeth chattering."

I stubbornly relaxed against the cottage. "Is that an order, Harbinger?" I asked sweetly.

Vilkas barked a laugh, and we both turned back to the stars. I traced the patterns in the skies, wishing I had some idea of which constellation I was seeing. I could recognise my birth sign, but whatever I was looking at overhead was not it.

After a companionable pause, Vilkas spoke up. "I will need to take up the position of Harbinger after all, won't I?" he sighed, though his lilt carried the warning trace of a taunt.

I flashed him a swift glance. "Good. I'm glad you've seen reason."

"The decision has nothing to do with reason," he continued; his amusement made his accent seem thicker. "And _everything_ to do with that boy's feelings for you," he tilted his head toward the cottage, letting out a low whistle.

 _Here it comes_ , I closed my eyes and prepared myself. "Is that so?" I had to ask.

"Mm hmm," Vilkas mused. "You'll be off making his babies the moment the war ends, and forget all about your poor old shield-brothers in Whiterun. If you could only -"

"No – don't," I held my hand up swiftly, opening my eyes. "I know, you have no choice but to feel these things, but..." I faltered. What was I trying to say? All I knew was that I didn't want to hear about Hadvar's feelings from Vilkas, even as part of a brotherly taunt; it was an invasion of trust.

Vilkas grinned, quite wolfishly. "Oh, this has _nothing_ to do with what I sensed from him," he joked. "Though, if you _were_ ever in doubt of his intentions, I can -"

"Please!" I cut him off again, torn between distress and laughter. "I – don't want to know!" my cheeks flamed. "Not like this," I added quickly.

Vilkas chuckled, seemingly satisfied with my response, and pushed at my shoulder. "All right. You can figure it out for yourselves."

"That would probably be best," I muttered.

Vilkas leaned back, grinning to himself. Ruffled, I leaned back as well. There was another silence between us. The brightest stars seemed closer than usual, and more tangible, as though if I reached up I could run my hand through their brilliance, creating ripples in the velvet blackness.

I had come to speak to Vilkas about our plans after Windhelm, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it. I should have gone back inside, left him alone, but his taunting – making _babies_? – made me nervous about going back in to Hadvar. What _had_ Vilkas picked up over the course of our day together? My daydreams? His feelings? Hadvar and I cared for one another, deeply – and regretted our separation – but, where would this affection place us when our duties were over? Did he desire...marriage? Children? _Forever_?

My mind raced away with the idea, both attracted and panicked by it. Where would we live? His family were in Riverwood – we would remain close to them, surely.

Was that what I wanted? Riverwood wasn't so bad. It was beautiful – peaceful – the perfect place to raise children and maintain a simple, honest life. But, what about my music – my training – my family's house in Solitude? Would Hadvar follow me there, if I told him that I wished to go back to the college? Would he hold off starting a family, so I could graduate and tour, if I wished it?

"What are you afraid of?" Vilkas interrupted my rampaging thoughts gently.

Training my eyes forward, I couldn't answer him.

"You don't need to be able to sense his heart to see he wants long term," Vilkas tried again, shifting in my peripheral, leaning one shoulder against the cottage as he resettled, facing my side. "But, if that terrifies you so much..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

I shook my head resolutely. "It doesn't. It's just...I am no good at this," I managed.

"At what?"

"Love," I admitted in a huff, still unwilling to meet my shield-brother's eyes, despite his senses exposing me. "I have no idea what I'm doing, or what's expected of me. Hadvar and I talk about our pasts, not what we _want_."

"But, you do love him?"

I nodded, and cast Vilkas a swift glance. "Yes. So. How does this work?"

The teasing glint was back in his eyes. "You want my advice?"

Shoulders falling, I sighed. "Sure."

"Go inside. Talk to him."

I flashed him a hard look. "Well, obviously. I meant..." I trailed off. What did I want?

"I can't tell you what your heart wants," Vilkas held his hands up, still amused.

"You can't?" I turned to face him, eyes flashing with challenge, butting my shoulder against the cottage wall and recrossing my arms as I faced him. "You, who seems to know my heart better than I do?"

Vilkas fixed me with a dry expression. "Good night, sister," he pushed off the wall and walked into the darkness toward the mill.

I lowered my eyes, sorry for what I had said, but let him go. "Good night, brother."

–

I must have been outside for longer than I had thought. I stepped into the stiflingly-warm common room and saw that Lydia was no longer there.

Hadvar was, sat at the large table by himself with his cheek rested on the wooden tabletop. He was fast asleep.

I smiled at the scene. Still wearing the Whiterun guard armour, the vision of what our lives might have been had he pledged himself to Whiterun instead of the Empire made me yearn for a day, or even an hour, of that reality.

How could I have felt nervous about coming back to him? Hadvar had done _nothing_ to make me feel uncomfortable. He had always offered kindness and support. We had simply never had time enough together to discuss the future.

Easing into the seat next to him, I brushed his hair back out of his eyes, then rested my hand on his cheek.

"Hey," I smiled, brushing his cheekbone with my thumb. "Time for bed, love."

Hadvar stirred; blinked blearily. Eyelids fluttered, but then focussed, and he smiled serenely. "Celeste. I missed you," he murmured, curling an arm around my waist.

He was only half awake, and didn't seem to have the will to move. I rested my head on the table beside him, our noses nearly touching. "I missed you too," I whispered.

With another smile and some more sleepy blinking, Hadvar touched his nose to mine. "You are cold," he stated quietly, shuffling closer; hand drifting lazily along my side.

"Am I?" I brushed my hand through his hair and twined my fingers in the strands.

"Mm," Hadvar's grasp on my waist tightened and his eyes lost the haze of sleepiness.

"I don't feel cold," I owned, my words washing over his lips.

"Even so," he countered. "As one of your protectors, it is my oath to keep you safe, and...warm."

I closed my eyes, savouring the closeness. "A valid point, Quaestor Reidarsson. I couldn't have you neglecting your duties. So," I let out a rush of air in amusement, "how do you propose to warm me up?"

Hadvar sighed weightily; "It's all work, work, work, with you," he muttered.

Then he pressed his lips to mine; soft and unhurried.

Had I been cold before, there was no remembering it; a gasp left me as his lingering kiss set me aflame.

He made a soft, pleased sound and sat up, hungrily deepening the kiss as he turned to better reach me. The legs of his chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as it turned, but the sound was ignored.

With a tug of his teeth to my bottom lip, Hadvar retreated. I whimpered at the loss, wrapping my arms around his neck, ready to fight him if he suggested we part for the night.

The look in his eyes told me that such words would never pass his lips, burning with a desire I had never known. Grey depths searched swiftly, as though I might disappear if he blinked.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"You feel like...a dream," he admitted quietly; his hands left tingling trails down my back.

The sudden intensity was dizzying, and somehow a little frightening. As a distraction from building nerves, I leaned up and lightly kissed his jaw.

"A good dream?" I asked softly, brushing my lips across his jawbone again, feather-light. Prickles of stubble made his face scratchy, but I liked it; it made him more real.

Hadvar swallowed, groaning softly. "Oh, you're _that_ dream."

" _That_ dream?" I laughed breathily, retreating to arch an eyebrow. "Which dream would that be?"

Hadvar chuckled, leaning forward to press his nose to mine. "I'll show you," he mumbled against my lips before he kissed me again with unrestrained passion.

Only this time there was _more_ ; he closed his hands and urged me up and forward. My hands found his shoulders, my squeak of surprise swallowed as he settled me on his lap; my legs straddling his.

My eyes flew open in startling realisation. I leaned back; met his eyes, asking questions I couldn't find the voice to speak. For the first time in my life I was alone with a man – a man I _loved_ , who loved me in return. It would be so easy to give myself to him tonight. A thrill coursed through me, chased by a fear I couldn't grasp hold of.

Hadvar watched and waited while my mind ticked over, all the while adjusting his support to steady me.

"Too fast?" he murmured eventually.

"No, it's...I've never," I babbled, changing my mind. "It's just...a really good dream," I managed, adjusting my arms more comfortably around his neck.

"Yes, I'm quite a fan of it," he smiled, lowering his head; his lips grazed my collarbone. Trembling, I bit my bottom lip so I wouldn't moan loud enough to wake Lydia, and tightened my grip so I wouldn't fall. _I can do this_. _We can do this._

Hadvar retreated, his eyes clouded. He hugged me, sighing shakily; his face pressed against my neck, but he made no move to kiss me again.

Why had he stopped? Had I done something wrong?

"Um. Hadvar?" I whispered.

"Celeste?" he replied, just as softly.

"What are we doing?"

With a burst of air he laughed, and I couldn't help but join him. We chuckled against each other; the tension dissolved.

He eased back then shifted me sideways so I sat across his lap instead of on top of him. The hunger in his eyes transformed; a relaxed fondness was back, which did much to settle me.

"You're so beautiful," he said easily, resettling his arms around my waist.

My smile grew unwittingly. "So are you," I offered.

"I..." he faltered, looking down to his lap – well, our laps. "It's strange to remember this is only the second full day we have spent together. I feel as though I have known, or been wanting to know you, all my life," he glanced up; a trace of uncertainty lingered in his gaze. "We don't have to do – I mean," his eyes widened. "Don't mistake me. I _want_ you, more than I have wanted _anything –_ but – I – I'm not asking you to. It would be a _bad_ idea with your housecarl, and your guardian shield-siblings-" he widened his eyes even more.

"Hadvar," pressing a hand to his cheek, I smiled; my eyes glowed with relief. It was comforting, in a way, to understand he was as hesitant about some things as I was.

He stilled; closed his mouth and waited for more, his eyes longing, but torn.

Shame prickled at me. I leaned down, resting my ear on his shoulder; fingers brushing, splayed over yellow armour covering hard muscle. "I understand," I whispered, quietened to know that I had caused that look. He must have thought he was rushing, or frightening me - I hadn't realised.

 _Was_ I frightened? This wasn't Mikael, stealing a kiss as he caged a younger me, sweeping back to laugh at my flushed cheeks and stupefied expression. This was _Hadvar_. I wasn't scared of him; I was scared of my _response_ to him.

Should I explain? No. Actions had caused this, so actions would fix it. The decision made, I shuffled closer and pressed my lips to his neck.

He made a quiet sound of restraint, but lifted his chin to give me better access. I smiled against his neck, and tried the kiss again.

"You..." he murmured; sucked in a tight breath. His hands grasped and he breathed an exasperated laugh. "I was...mm, trying to talk to you!"

He tasted delicious; smoky from the hearth, with a fresh, subtle tang of snowstorm beneath, and something deeper, dense and intoxicating that I couldn't identify as anything but _him_. My teeth grazed his skin, testing for response; he bit back a groan and squeezed my hips.

I giggled against his neck. "Sorry," I kissed the spot lightly, then sat back and met his eyes. I tried to be serious, but my eyes danced, betraying me. "You were saying?"

He was fixed in place for a moment; glazed and faraway, then leant forward. "I don't remember," his breath was warm against my lips. Tilting my chin up, we met for another slow, hungry kiss.

My heart raced and my soul sang, warm and glowing. _Go inside. Talk to him,_ Vilkas had advised. Talk about what? About whether this attachment would lead anywhere if we survived what the world threw in our paths? About whether our needs and wants and futures aligned? About the colour of the curtains we would hang in our kitchen?

As Hadvar made a contented sound that I both heard and felt as a rumble to his broad chest, I pushed my questions over what might be ahead of us aside.

 _Why don't we live each day as it comes,_ Hadvar had said.

 _Yes_ , I decided as we drew breaths from one another. Tomorrow could wait. There was no telling who we would be tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day five years from now. Our time together, our story, was in its infancy, and there was only, truly, one way to determine where it would take us.

To live it. He was here; I was here. He wanted me, and I _was_ ready to give everything to him; I just had to be brave.

"Hadvar?" I gasped between kisses.

"Mm?" was the muffled reply, before he dipped down to kiss my neck.

I grasped his shoulders as a flush of desire pounded through me. "I...oh, _Gods_. I want you too."

He groaned against my neck, resting his forehead on my shoulder. " _Don't._ Don't say that," he gulped in breaths of air, shifting trembling hands to my waist. He sat up and looked down to me; his pupils larger than before. "I can't..." he shook his head in frustration, glancing toward the fire.

I frowned. I had misread him? "But – you said you-"

"Please," he cut me off, glancing back; his expression steadier than before. He cupped my cheek tenderly and a bittersweet smile graced his features. "Celeste," he began haltingly, "I can't make love to you tonight, and leave you tomorrow. I _can't_ ," his eyes shone with determination. "I _won't_ do that to you, or to myself."

"Oh," I couldn't stop the flush from rising as he openly talked of _sex_ with _me_. I shuddered, acknowledging that yes, that _was_ what I wanted. I closed my eyes as his thumb brushed over my cheek, and tried to swallow back my response. "What happened to living each day?" fell from my lips.

He chuckled. "Using my words against me?" he queried unabashedly.

I laughed quietly, drawing closer; pressed my lips to his jaw fleetingly. "I could use _my_ words, if you prefer. A song, or perhaps a poem-"

"Celeste," he said quietly in warning; a small laugh left him in a huff.

Smiling in victory - of what I wasn't sure - I brushed his hair behind his ear, leaning up to whisper-sing against it, " _We drink to our youth_ -"

"Don't," his laughter doubled; his hands tightened on my waist and, after a slight faltering, he held me back. His sparkling eyes bore a trace of suspicion. "My resolve to do what's right, not what I _want_ , is barely holding together with you here like this."

"Like what?" I asked innocently. I toyed with the hair at the back of his neck, twirling my fingers as I waited for him to explain. Hadvar ruffled and aroused was so different to the other faces of Hadvar that I knew; so raw and adorable, and exciting. And this anticipation, _knowing_ that we both wanted one another, was exhilarating.

He shook his head, exasperated, though he leaned against my wandering fingers. "Gods, I had no _idea_ you could be such a tease," he groaned, closing his eyes.

Though a desire to press against his _resolve_ coursed through me, a spike of unease stilled me at the word _tease_. My amusement retreated.

"I'm not teasing you," I lifted up, kissing him once; softly; briefly. Exercising restraint, I pulled back and sighed, sending him a hopeful expression. "I've...really no idea what I'm doing. I've never..." my eyelashes fluttered as I looked down. "Sorry," I settled simply, unable to get my words out in the face of his endearing gaze. "You are right."

His fingers were on my chin, lifting me to look at him.

"Can I have that in writing?" he arched an eyebrow, smiling.

I hit his chest as a giggle burst out of me. "Legionnaires and their lists!" I accused.

He laughed, then kissed me again, but this time, it was all warmth and comfort; the intensity diffused. The night drifted on and Hadvar and I talked, kissed, and laughed into the early hours.

And I learned that despite the desire coursing through me, I didn't really _need_ more from him at this moment. _This_ was living each day as it came; no pressure, no stumbling towards a finish line leagues away from the now.

Eventually, acknowledging that we would both need our wits about us tomorrow (or was it today already?), we retreated to the dormitories. Hadvar guided me with an arm around my shoulder to the bed he had prepared earlier for his use. Vilkas and Farkas' belongings were on the other two beds, but I wagered they would not use them, no matter the hour, and Lydia was in the other room, sleeping beside the bed we had prepared for me.

Stripping our armour and kicking off our boots, we crashed into Hadvar's bed in the tunics and trousers we wore below and stretched out under the scratchy furs and coverings; our legs twined as we faced each other, shuffling until it was comfortable for us both on the single bed.

Even in the dimness of the room, I saw him smiling; watching me. I kissed him, unable to help myself. Within the heady, hazy tiredness, Hadvar _did_ seem to be a dream.

I fell asleep soon after, holding him close, hoping that the dream would never end.

–

"Well, isn't this sweet."

I blinked awake, comfortably warm and contented. I remembered that a voice had woken me, and turned my head to see my housecarl standing over the bed, her brows crossed and her hands on her hips.

The flush rose across my cheeks as I glanced from her, to Hadvar, who was stirring beside me. He still faced me; our legs tangled and his hand draped over my hip. "Lydia," I scrambled to pull back the covers and sit on the side of the bed. "It's not – nothing-"

"Calm down, little one," Lydia sounded amused and passed me my boots. "And get dressed. It's dawn. We need to leave soon, and Vilkas has an idea."

"Hmm?" Hadvar was awake, and blearily glanced to Lydia; confused and frowning at her.

I began to put my boots on quickly, ducking my head and trying to douse my embarrassment with a reminder that we were two grown adults – and besides, we _hadn't_ done anything.

"Good morning, Hadvar," Lydia replied to his indeterminable sound cheerfully. "I trust you had a pleasant night."

"Night-? _Oh_ ," he realised quietly why she seemed to be laughing at him. I glanced to him from under my mussed-up hair to see that his eyes were wider, and a small smile was playing on his lips. "I suppose that means I'm in for a lecture?" he asked her.

Lydia laughed, passing him _his_ boots. "Not from me. But, you might not want to mention this to Vilkas or Farkas," Lydia smirked knowingly.

I tightened the last buckle on the inside of my boot and sat up, trying to untangle my hair with my fingers. "There's no _this_ , Lydia. Nothing happened."

Again she smirked. "All right," she nodded, though sounded as though she didn't believe me. "I'll see you in the common room directly, _my Thane_."

Once she was gone, Hadvar laughed quietly to himself, and I hazarded him a glance as I began to hurriedly braid my windswept curls. I needed to brush my hair, but my pack was in the other dormitory, and I wasn't sure that Farkas would have included one when he'd packed our provisions anyway.

I must have sent Hadvar a question with my look, for he smiled and stood, putting his armour on as he explained. "I am imagining the look on your shield-brothers' faces, if they had found us."

A nervous laugh bubbled out of me. "They would be _relentless_."

"It would be worth it," Hadvar's eyes shone as he held his hand out to me. I took it, and he drew me close, wrapping his other arm around me and holding me against him. He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "I'd take their reprimands and teasing every day, if it meant I could hold you every night from now, until the Divines take us," he murmured poignantly.

My flush had barely recovered, and his words sent another rush of warmth through me; this time not out of embarrassment. "Hadvar..." I whispered, about to tell him that I wanted that too.

"Come," his hold on me relaxed and he took a step back, twining our fingers together as he grinned. "It sounds like your shield-brother has a plan."

I closed my mouth, nodding mutely and understanding that he didn't need, or perhaps even want, a reply to his disclosure. Not yet, at least.

We exited the men's dormitory, arriving in the warm, but _dark_ common room. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to nothing but the glow of embers in the hearth, and saw that the curtains of the four large windows were still closed. I spied the orange glow of dawn lining the eastern window.

The reason for keeping the windows cloaked was apparent when I spotted Vilkas and Farkas around the table. The twins were wearing blue. Lydia was sat beside Farkas, pawing through what was before them on the table with a frown on her face.

More blue. Stormcloak blue; even I could make out the familiar shade in the wan light. It was the armour belonging to the Stormcloaks we had killed the previous day.

The afterglow of Hadvar's words to me diminished as I understood, immediately, what Vilkas' _idea_ was.

Vilkas rose as we approached. I shuddered at the sight of my beloved friend in the colours of my enemy. With barely a glance to our joined hands, he turned to me and grimaced, holding out one of the azure garments.

"You...need to put this on," he sighed regretfully.

I pursed my lips, grasping Hadvar's hand a little tighter. "I am not going to pretend to be my sister."

"You forget," Vilkas tilted his head; his eyes determined and his offering maintained. "It is your sister who is pretending to be you."

Cursing, I snatched the armour from him. "We have a legitimate reason for being in Windhelm, Vilkas," I sighed, closing my eyes to reign in the force behind my words. "There is no reason to hide."

"If yesterday's altercation is anything to judge by," Vilkas countered sternly, "we have _every_ reason to hide, until we are standing before Stormcloak himself to deliver the Jarl's message."

I looked up to him again, frustrated. Seeing the stoic resolve in his stubborn, silvery eyes, I turned to Lydia and Farkas, and frowned. "You agree with him?" I asked, already knowing that Farkas would do whatever his brother bade.

Predictably, Farkas nodded.

Lydia hesitated, a blue cuirass clenched in her fist. She met my gaze across the room, and nodded as well. "I'm sorry, little one, but he is right. What happened yesterday," she sighed, and shrugged, somewhat helplessly, "The fact is; the Stormcloaks are _afraid_ of your sister. This will be the surest, fastest way in, and out of the city. The surest way to keep you _safe_ ," she added.

"Not if Stormcloak _arrests_ us for approaching him in this manner," I countered, letting go of Hadvar's hand to cross my arms at my companions.

"He won't arrest us," Vilkas grumbled, returning to his chair. "This is the _right_ way," Vilkas continued before I could counter, nodding for emphasis. "I was thinking about how we could do this, all night," he squared me with a flat expression. "It is fortuitous that we learned so much from the soldiers yesterday," he muttered.

" _Fortuitous_?" I gaped, unable to believe what I was hearing.

"Celeste, _think_ ," Vilkas commanded, his voice rising. "You heard that soldier – Giselle is _not_ in Windhelm right now. By waltzing in as a representative of the Jarl of Whiterun, you _expose_ the lie they have fought so hard to maintain. Stormcloak would consider himself _justified_ to apprehend you. But," his tone eased as he glanced to Hadvar, and waited.

I turned to Hadvar too, barely containing my bubbling indignation as I paused to see what he would make of this. He knew the Stormcloaks better than any of us.

Hadvar wore a flat expression; his eyes on my shield brother as he finished Vilkas' sentence.

"But if we walk into Windhelm as Stormcloaks," Hadvar murmured. "We pose no threat, to him, or to your sister's position. He is right," Hadvar turned to me. I could tell by the fire in his eyes that he hated to admit it. "Our mission is not about you and your sister. We do this for Whiterun, and this is the simplest way to ensure delivery of the Jarl's message."

It somehow relieved me to see that Hadvar was angry about this path, and I found myself nodding in the face of his reply.

"Exactly," Vilkas agreed, seeming relieved. "Get changed, and leave your lute and everything we don't need here. I've spoken to Gilfre this morning, and we will return here tonight, so we go in as light as possible," his tone shifted from stern to orderly. His silvery eyes flicked to me. "I saw your sister at the Nightgate. She wore a battle axe on her hip, so you will wear the Jarl's axe on yours. And...leave your hair wild, and loose," he added with some reluctance. "The wind can sweep it back, during the ride north."

"Wild and loose?" confused, I shook my head. "Giselle never lets a hair fall out of place-"

"But you're not going in as Giselle," Vilkas reminded me with a small tilt to the corner of his mouth. "You're dressing as the woman she believes you to be. Now," he addressed the others swiftly. "The longer we delay, the greater chance there is of the Stormcloaks learning about the clash yesterday. We leave in fifteen minutes."

I huffed my offence at what Vilkas had suggested about my hair, cursing my sister for the thousandth time as the others began to move. I stared down at the Stormcloak blue in my fist, and clenched my hand so tight that my knuckles turned white.

Deep down, I knew that he was right, but I did _not_ have to like it. But with Giselle out of Windhelm, I _had_ to put her out of my mind, and think only of Whiterun's needs. Today, I was their messenger.

Before the day was through, we would know whether or not Whiterun was going to war.

* * *

 _A/n: I am so, so sorry for the delay. Work is kicking my butt. I can't **wait** to write the next chapter.  
Reman Cyrodiil - I'll send you a PM over the next few days regarding your questions about TTLS/Sarina. _  
_Thanks for your patience. I hope this one was up to scratch._


	39. Shades of Blue

_Chapter 39: Shades of Blue_

I had never been to Windhelm. In fact, apart from a few family visits to Wayrest and the Imperial City, I hadn't travelled much at all, and never without my parents. I preferred to stay close to home with my people, school and music. Solitude provided everything I wanted and needed by way of society and engagement, and I had been contented to remain there in knowing that once I graduated, I would tour and be inspired by Skyrim with my then accomplished and qualified eyes.

Now I was approaching Windhelm as though it was a stage to perform on, I felt blinded by the dazzling unknowns laid out before me. I wished that I had travelled Skyrim more when the opportunities had presented themselves.

"Windhelm is not difficult to negotiate, so long as we stay clear of the residential areas," Hadvar murmured, when I told him I had never been. " _They_ can be a little labyrinthian," he finished with a sideways smile.

We had adopted the same formation as the previous day, with Hadvar drawing his horse forward to ride beside mine again, as we were yet to encounter anybody else on the northern roads.

I sent Hadvar a small, uncertain smile in return, attempting to suppress the unease I felt when I looked upon his beloved form in that _detestable_ blue armour. He must have felt much the same way about how I was dressed.

A dark curl swung into my line of sight, and I shook my hair out of my eyes for the millionth time, resisting the urge to braid it. It was going to be a nightmare to untangle when this was over.

"No detours once we're in the city, then," I commented quietly. "How do I get to the Palace of the Kings?"

" _We_ ," Hadvar tilted his head and raised his eyebrows pointedly, "go through the main gate, around Candlehearth Hall – that's one of the taverns – and then...keep going straight," he shrugged. "You'll see the palace the moment we are beyond the inn."

"It's that close to the gates?" I frowned. Jarls traditionally built their residences at the point furthest from the entryway, I assumed for defensive purposes.

Hadvar shook his head, considering. "No, but it's tall, and the stairs and archways behind the inn all lead directly to it."

"Oh," I pondered. It _sounded_ easy. So why did I still feel so worried about my lack of Windhelm knowledge? To play Giselle (playing me), I knew that I would simply need to stride purposefully through Windhelm as though I had spent a significant amount of time there and knew exactly where I was going – entourage or not. Nobody was going to stop and ask me for directions, or quiz me on how much a loaf of bread cost at the marketplace.

"Do you...?" Hadvar stopped short. I glanced to him; he was staring at his reigns, shaking his head and smirking. "Sorry, I was about to ask your strategy," he all but laughed at himself.

"Ah!" smiling in light of his teasing manner, I added, "Improvisation, remember?"

"I remember," he chuckled, his eyes still turned down. "An approach that would send the Legion into a panic."

"I like to seize opportunities, _as_ they occur," I defended merrily. Recovering from my amusement, but retaining my smile – Hadvar never failed to foster a bright moment when I needed it – I asked, "Does it bother _you_ so?"

"Not at all," he gave me a supportive look. "I trust your abilities. Your serenade last night was evidence of your skills in performing. But I am...used to operating within the Legion's way of doing _everything_ ," he raised his eyebrows and paused. "I have forgotten what it is to be...spontaneous," he decided, sending me a soft smile. "It's exciting. _You're_ exciting," he added quietly.

I turned away to try and mask my goofy grin as a flush stole its way onto my face. "Um, thank you. I think?" I laughed.

Before we could continue, Vilkas called back about an approaching rider. Still smiling at one another, Hadvar and I fell back into line.

Once we had passed the rider – a Windhelm guard, alone and patrolling on horseback who gave us a nod as he passed – Vilkas commanded that we ride faster, which made talking to Hadvar impossible for a time.

The further north we rode, the rockier and more frozen everything became, but the horses coped well. I had anticipated that there would be more snow, and there was plenty piled up beside the roads, but I hadn't expected the sheer ruggedness of the mountains that we were traversing. It seemed as though we climbed forever as the morning progressed. My knowledge of Windhelm's geography, from books mostly, told me that we would have to descend soon, unless it was further away than I thought. Windhelm had a port, after all, and ships couldn't sail up and down a mountainside.

While I was reluctant to think over what precise words I would say to Ulfric Stormcloak, for doing so might trap me should he not respond in a way that I had anticipated, my mind naturally swam with thoughts of what lay ahead. Though I knew that there would be little possibility in learning much of it, I ached to understand how my sister had not only come to join the Stormcloaks, but also risen through the ranks to become one of Ulfric's _Commanders_.

It was this thought that accompanied me while my party and I silently rode on. Giselle was a nineteen-year-old student of the College of Winterhold, of both Breton and Imperial ancestry, for Shor's sake! It made no sense that Ulfric Stormcloak, who was known to deplore any who weren't Nord, had come to rely on _her_ as a member of his army's upper-hierarchy, a position that would require a level of understanding and trust between one another. Perhaps she had been elevated begrudgingly when it had become known that I was Dragonborn, I theorised, so they could take advantage of the status? But then, why were the Stormcloaks _afraid_ of her? And I had heard her myself, issuing orders as she had searched for me at the Nightgate inn. She had sounded like a woman very much in control and used to having her commands carried out.

What had she _done_?

No matter how I chewed over the facts, I could make little sense of them. There was something bigger, something vital to a conceivable understanding missing from my limited store of knowledge, and I had to accept that I would not discover any great truths to fill the gaps on this journey.

When we crested a particularly steep section of mountain road, Vilkas called for our party to stop. Shaking my hair out of my face as it was swept forward from the change in pace, I glanced to him expectantly as our queue halted.

"What is it?" I asked, when nobody spoke.

Vilkas wordlessly glanced to me, his eyebrows raised, and then angled his head toward something beyond us.

I followed the direction of his nod, and gasped.

Below us, as grim and grey as the expanses of exposed rock around us too steep for snow to cling on, was a sprawling, walled city.

"Windhelm," Lydia announced disdainfully.

It was at least as large as Solitude; perhaps larger, and _tall_ , but the two cities could not have been more different. While Solitude was often windswept, it embodied a beauty and gentility that Windhelm seemed to bear none of.

Windhelm, in a word, was a _fortress_. A fitting seat for a warlord. The kind of city that one would step into and disappear, and none who heard of it would be surprised.

"Are you ready to do this?" Vilkas asked me.

Closing my mouth, I nodded. For my shield-brothers' sakes, I clamped down on my dread.

 _Thane of Whiterun. Dragonborn._ I reminded myself swiftly, in much the same way that I had, in a previous life, convinced myself that I was an artist who deserved to perform for the aristocracy.

In the corner of my eye, I could see that Vilkas was still watching me warily. For emphasis, I nodded again. "I'm ready."

"Good," my shield-brother murmured. "After you, Commander."

"We need to be in and out of Windhelm as quickly as possible," Hadvar spoke up soberly, before anyone had shifted.

All eyes turned to him. He'd stopped his mare next to mine when we had crested the ridge, but he was addressing the others; his eyes hard.

"If you notice any _hint_ of suspicion -"

"We'll know about it, well in advance," Vilkas supplied smoothly. "Farkas and I can take them out – discreetly," he added with a dangerous half-smirk.

Hadvar accepted this with a serious nod, but proceeded. "I don't doubt it, but still. We don't want to draw attention toward Celeste," he glanced sideways to me; stern and efficient. "If there is trouble – Lydia, you disappear our girl while the rest of us lead the threat away. If we are split up, for any reason," he continued, "we regroup on the upper level of Candlehearth Hall, and try make for the Palace again within the hour. We don't leave anyone behind, and we don't leave Windhelm until this is _done_ ," Hadvar added, narrowing his eyes as he looked down upon the city.

"Nobody is going to suspect that I am not my sister," I eased, sensing that he was edgier than he was letting on, though perhaps only because I didn't have a solid plan. "Trust me. I can do this," I told him confidently.

Hadvar gave me an unreadably flat, sideways look. "We know you can."

–

As the Windhelm Guard had no reason to believe that the twin of one of their Commanders would attempt to walk into Windhelm dressed as her, we had no trouble entering the city of grey before midday.

From the moment we had approached the stables outside of the gates I had fallen into my role; becoming silent, but snotty, privileged, and certain of the knowledge that I was above everybody else. Even if Giselle was pretending to be me in _name,_ she would never pick up a lute and make friends with the local mercenaries. My sister was no performer; she would never risk trying to emulate my personality or traits, for then it would have to be maintained. It would have incensed her enough to have to take on my first name, as it was.

My hair was suitably wild, as Vilkas had intended. I resisted every urge within me to push it back; to tame the snaking curls flowing freely around me like a shadowy, tangled mane. Rather than continue to be distracted by it, I insisted that I use it. I did not feel like myself at all with my hair like this, and dressed in the armour of a Stormcloak.

Hadvar had been accurate in his description of our route. Once I strode around the fire pits and inn just within the gates, my entourage flanking me, I could see the Palace of the Kings.

It _was_ tall. More fire pits lined each staircase leading up to the immense structure, and we strode on, emanating our own self-importance. While I was certain that our approach attracted the attention of those we passed, we received no hails.

As we neared, I tried desperately to suppress the feeling that I was walking into a trap – that I would be taken, despite my protectors, and despite the message I bore from one whom Stormcloak could not risk offending. This might be the last time I saw the sky. The stacked wings of the palace loomed over me, threatening to crush my spirit as I glanced up, determined to commit the glimpses of puffy white and shades of blue above me to memory.

When I had drank in the skies and turned forward again, movement caught my eye; blue-clad guards either side of the double-doors leading into the palace. They had seen me, and had stood to attention.

I narrowed my eyes in Giselle's trademark manner. Jarl Balgruuf's axe bounced heavily against my leg as I strode to the door. It was too late to turn back.

"Commander Passero – you're back!" the nearest guard saluted, not making eye contact as he did.

I grimaced and ignored his welcome. "Let me through," I ordered, trying to sound bored.

Within, every fibre of my being was on edge, and buzzing.

"At once," the same guard darted forward, levering the door handle and pushing inward.

The words _thank you_ were on the tip of my tongue, and I bit it to stop myself as I continued forward.

"Whoa, there," the other guard spoke up.

I turned back from within the door arch, crossing my brows impatiently.

He wasn't looking at me, but my followers.

 _No,_ my heart hammered. _They can't have been recognised._

"You know the rules," the guard who had stopped them drawled. "Infantry don't enter the palace unless they are summoned, no matter _who_ they approach with," he raised an eyebrow at Lydia, who had opened her mouth during his reminder.

Lydia closed her mouth, glancing to me. Over her shoulder, Hadvar was maintaining a flat expression; his eyes turned away from mine swiftly as I met them. Both Vilkas and Farkas were scowling at the guard, but didn't speak.

Fearing that they would start something, or that their wolves might _make_ them start something, I furrowed my brows even more and stepped back outside.

"Return to your posts," I prompted them sharply, in support of the guard who had pulled them up. I would have to go on alone.

Lydia bowed her head at once. "As you wish, Commander," she intoned respectfully.

The men bowed their heads as well, then followed Lydia back down the stairs we had just climbed. The light from the multiple fire pits, brighter than the weakened winter sun behind the clouds, cast their shadows in a multitude of directions as they marched away from me.

 _Jarl Balgruuf would be furious,_ was my first thought as I turned and continued on my own, lone path into the Palace of the Kings.

It was dim inside. My eyes adjusted, burning briefly as my pupils dilated. I maintained my confident stride, trying desperately _not_ to think about whether I had just said good bye to my friends forever.

 _They will be at Candlehearth Hall,_ I tried to assure myself. _Deliver the message, receive his answer, go to the inn._

 _"Dispose of what's left of the body. We can't have them finding her."_

The memory of Ulfric's words at the border camp surfaced at the _wrong_ time. To distract from whatever my fate might be – I was committed to completing this now – I took in what details I dared of the entry hall.

Torches lined the carved stone walls and chandeliers made of iron and chain hung in a line above the feasting table, though most were extinguished. At the far end of the long table in the centre of the hall were figures – all large and looming, most dressed in Stormcloak armour, clustered around several men wearing furs. Beyond the assembly was a well-lit throne on a raised platform; the place where Ulfric undoubtedly liked to sit while he fancied himself High King. I didn't allow myself to look up – none who were familiar with a place would bother inspecting the _roof_ – but I had seen enough when I had entered to know that the ceiling was not too high, as grey as the rest of the building, and carved, though not too elaborately. Several doors framed the main hall – all closed but for the one nearest the throne – and the Bear of Eastmarch hung on blue and white banners above each, and at additional intervals between each.

My boots made little noise on the flat carpets that covered the floor either side of the table, and as such, I was able to inspect Ulfric Stormcloak for moments before my appearance captured the attention of the group.

"Damn him – the old bear was right again," Ulfric seemed to curse, clenching his fist around a note in his hand; his voice low and grumbling, like thunder.

"There is still the Reach to think of, my Lord," a man by his side encouraged – the only man, I noted, who wasn't wearing armour but finer furred garments. _Undoubtedly a steward,_ I surmised.

"True enough," Stormcloak stood taller, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. "Put out an order for Gar and Hran's men to join Red-Shoal's garrison. I want their numbers-" he lowered his eyes, and in the process, they landed on me.

Despite the adoption of my role, I halted immediately; staring at him wide-eyed like a deer faltering before a bear to consider which way it might swing in order to flee in the opposite direction.

"You're dismissed," Stormcloak uttered in an low voice, palming the note in his fist to the man by his side without even looking at him.

"But – sir-!" one of the assembly cried.

"I said _out_!" Ulfric boomed.

I startled slightly at his ferocity and kicked myself into action to hide it, recommencing my stride toward the towering Jarl as the others, some muttering to one another and casting me all manner of narrow-eyed glares, filed out.

I didn't see where they went – though I heard doors open and close as I came to a halt several paces before the man who I had vowed to kill, some day in our futures.

His icy-blue eyes seemed wild and dangerous, and had been fixed on me since he had first sighted me, but the rest of his expression was flat, if not grim.

Reminding myself that despite my personal hatred for this tyrant, he was a Jarl of Skyrim and I was here as Jarl Balgruuf's messenger, not as Stormcloak's nemesis, I dipped my head to him.

"I have-"

"Not yet," he growled in an undertone, cutting me off.

I glanced up from beneath my lashes, wary of raising my head fully before he had given me leave to do so. Once he had, I would know whether he thought me to be myself, or my sister, and I could then determine how to explain how and _why_ I had come before him.

Stormcloak's eyes weren't on me any more, but on a point beyond me. I hazarded a sideways glance and spotted a pair of men – the steward and another wearing what looked like a bear pelt, standing before one of the closed doors in discussion.

Ulfric Stormcloak cursed under his breath. I whipped my head back around, lowering my eyes and practising patience.

"Come on," he said through his teeth, then spun around and charged off.

I glanced up, confused, and saw his armoured form retreating toward the open doorway to the left of the throne.

Frowning, I followed tentatively, reminding myself that I had no choice if I wanted to complete my task. I prayed to the Divines that he wasn't leading me directly to a prison cell.

I stood in the open doorway of the room he had brought me to and glanced around. Small. Empty but for a table in the centre with a large map pinned to it, and a few banners on the wall. _War room,_ my mind supplied.

I yelped pitifully as a meaty fist closed around my wrist and tugged me out of the doorway, and into the room.

Crashing into Ulfric Stormcloak, he covered my mouth with his other hand, then twisted my wrist in his grasp, looming over me. The torch behind me lit up every scar on his face, and his eyes shone with an intense, terrifying zeal.

"What are you _playing_ at?" he hissed at me, throwing my wrist away, but capturing my waist with his arm instead of releasing me. "Do you _want_ to draw the Guard to us? In my own _palace_?"

My eyes widened and I tried to shrink back from him, realising suddenly what I was seeing in his glare. _Hunger._

He reaffirmed his hold on my waist, and as though to confirm my new-found comprehension, Stormcloak laughed, but it was an intimate rumbling chuckle that I both heard and felt as a tremor against my chest. Uncovering my mouth, Stormcloak lowered his nose to mine. "Don't look at me like that, Sel," he mumbled, pressing my body firmly against his. "I've missed you."

Before I could fathom a response, or attempt to flee, Ulfric Stormcloak crushed his lips to mine in an intense, devouring kiss.

Paralysed with fear, in both what was happening and what it _meant_ , it took me a moment to react to the hated wall of muscle trying to inhale my face. I tried to speak – uttering only a muffled squeal – then twisted my hands trapped between us and tried to push him away, to no avail. If anything, my efforts seemed to encourage him; he grunted as he ground himself against me and pushed his tongue between my teeth.

I was going to be sick and if I bit his tongue, I would be as good as dead. I was trapped, but a building, burning rage was swelling within me – this man, this _murderer_ would _dare_ kiss me after all he had done to me, to my _family_?

The white-hot anger swiftly overtook the fearful shock; and gratefully, it instinctively filled the only weapon I had in my personal armoury that could free me; though the consequences might be terrible.

" _FUS!_ " the shout erupted, pushing Ulfric off me. His eyes were wide for an instant as the force rippled over him, and then he recovered, grasping onto the table before he could skid past it, righting himself as he fixed me with a dark, furious glare.

I met him with eyes blazing and ready to strike if he came near me again. Would my shout draw the attention of Ulfric's people, or guards? I hoped that it would. I wanted his closest men to witness this, witness _me_ , the true Dragonborn, delivering my message from Whiterun.

But the seconds ticked by and while we stared each other down, nobody came. Drawing Balgruuf's axe from my hip, I maintained the Jarl's gaze as I held it before me, in my own defence as much as offering it as I had sworn to do.

Stormcloak stood taller, his glower fixed on me and not the axe. "You're not Sel," he accused flatly.

 _Sel_? I hadn't heard anybody call Giselle 'Sel' since we were five years old.

"I am not," I replied at once; a sudden confidence building within my chest. I had caught the great Ulfric Stormcloak off guard, and now he would _listen_. The wrath coursing through me was serving to steady me, somehow, despite what had occurred and how afraid he had made me feel only moments ago.

"You are making a habit of appearing before me under the guise of another," he made a move to approach me. "Why are you here now, and wearing my colours?"

I held the axe out pointedly between us in warning. "Don't touch me," I commanded in a low voice. Internally, I winced at the childishness of my choice of words.

Ulfric seemed unfazed by my bravado. "You _dare_ enter my home under this false pretence to _threaten_ me?" he barked a loud, humourless laugh. "Do you even know how to swing an axe, _Celeste_?"

 _Bravo, ice-brain,_ my inner-voice taunted him. Amazed by the absence of true fear within me – for the last time I _had_ stood before him at the border camp, I had _trembled_ thick with it – I fixed him with a doubtful expression.

"This isn't a _threat_ ," I all but laughed at him. Stormcloak growled and clenched his fists, but I went on, adopting a more efficient tone. "I've come to you on business, on behalf of _my_ Jarl, Balgruuf of Whiterun."

" _Balgruuf_ sent you?" he bit out.

Satisfied that I had managed to surprise him again, I smirked. "Did I not just say so? After all," I challenged, "I would not _dare_ , as you put it, to enter your city under _any_ other _pretence_. And I am wearing your colours, _sir_ , as a courtesy to you," I all but spat. "To protect the intricate web of lies you have woven. I am _not_ here today to pageant your supporters or reveal that the _Dragonborn_ has not and never _would_ side with the Stormcloaks, as you have led them to believe."

Stormcloak's eyes burned with a seemingly relentless fury, but finally the Jarl unclenched his fists and flattened his grimace. "What is your message, Thane of Whiterun?" he rumbled. He was trying to sound unaffected, but I could still detect the hint of scorn.

I bit a retort back, reminding myself that I had to keep control of this conversation. "This axe," I glanced down to it, then held it out. "Jarl Balgruuf asked that I deliver it to you."

Ulfric eyed me warily as he stepped closer, holding his hands out to hover over my offering.

"And his words?" the Jarl asked, his eyes shimmering slightly and glued to the axe.

"He asks you to stand down," I voiced, unemotional and unmoving.

Stormcloak's hands stilled. "Stand _down_?" he thundered; his eyes flashing as he tore his gaze up to stare at me with accusation.

"Correct," I reaffirmed, quickly and quietly, meeting him boldly but ensuring I didn't wear my fury so readily as he did. I didn't like that he was standing so close to me again, either, and I wanted this task, and truthfully this war, to be over. _Personal grudges aside_ , I schooled. _Speak for Whiterun, for Skyrim –_ _not yourself, or your parents._

"As your friend," I sighed, lowering the axe a little, as it was too heavy for me to hold up for such a length of time, "Jarl Balgruuf would ask that you end this war; this bloodshed. He would ask that you take his axe and stand with the Jarls again. If you agree to do so, Jarl Balgruuf has sworn that he will stand by you at the moot, when it is called," I explained cooly.

Ulfric lowered his hands to his sides; his fists clenched once more. "So. Galmar was right," he muttered to himself. " _Again_ ," he added through his teeth.

Ignoring his interjection, I proceeded. "Will you accept?" I asked. My tone made it sound like a challenge, but Ulfric didn't seem to hear me.

Instead, his shoulders somewhat fell, and in his eyes I caught disappointment. Surprised to see him put off guard at all, let alone in _this_ regard, I took a step back and furrowed my brows, peering at him curiously. "You...believed that Jarl Balgruuf would _join_ you?" I whispered, aghast. "After all you have done?"

Ulfric's icy-blue eyes shot up to pierce mine, and despite hating the man before me, I regretted what I had said. It was clear that he _had_ , and my comment had sounded like a jeer, as a result.

"You know nothing of this war, you traitorous _child_ ," he muttered.

He was baiting me, but I wasn't certain as to why. I avoided rising to it and instead sighed again, glancing away to hook Balgruuf's axe back onto my sword belt. There was no point in offering it again. "Well," I shrugged. "There's our answer," I murmured, unimpressed.

I dipped my head, as was expected of me, and made to turn away. "Jarl Stormcloak, I take my leave," I added tightly.

Before I had taken a step – before I had even finished _turning_ , I felt his thick fingers close around my upper arm, and tug.

I whirled back around to face him; my eyes narrowed to slits. I was not here to antagonise him, but I would not be manhandled, no matter who he was. "Unhand me," I demanded through my teeth.

"Take your coward of a Jarl a message, _errand girl_ ," he grated, gripping my arm even harder. I steeled myself not to react despite the pain he caused; I had feared him when he had descended on me, because he had surprised me, but I would not fear him again.

"Tell Balgruuf that a new day is dawning," Ulfric narrowed his eyes, "and that the sun rises over Whiterun," he finished menacingly.

I didn't move a muscle. "We will be ready," I replied flatly.

"And, Celeste Passero, know _this_ ," he wasn't finished with me, but released my arm with a small shake. "When Whiterun is captured, you and I will talk again."

Smirking at Stormcloak and suppressing every urge to rub at my aching arm, I took a step back. "We shall see."

I meant to turn away then, but more words flew from me before I had realised I would say them. "Should I bother asking why you kissed me when you thought I was Giselle?"

It was Ulfric's turn to smirk now, and his eyes darkened. "Why do you think?" he rumbled.

 _Breathe_ , I reminded myself as I yearned to _FUS_ the smug look off his face. _Just breathe. Stormcloak hates anybody who isn't Nord. He'd never...he wouldn't. And Giselle wouldn't give herself to such a brute – she has always been so disdainful of...and turned her nose down on..._

Taking a few more backward steps toward the door with my eyes on Stormcloak all the while, I shook my head to try and dispel the confusion. I shuddered out a long breath in an attempt to steady myself.

"If you have laid a _single hand_ on my sister-"

"She is her own woman," Ulfric cut me off.

With a jolt, I recalled that Giselle had said those words to me on the day we had gone to the Temple to farewell our parents. The memory of her quiet, oddly wistful disclosure as we had walked beside one another now turned my blood to ice.

Stormcloak wasn't done. "If I have laid hands on your sister," he told me vaguely. "It is because she wanted me to."

"But she's a _mage_! And you _hate_ Imperials!" I spat out before I could stop and think.

Ulfric Stormcloak laughed; a low, rumbling, terrible laugh that rocked me where I stood; he might as well have used a thu'um on me.

"Our lives might mean nothing to you," I pleaded over the sound of his amusement – why was I _pleading_? "But – you took our parents – the people who brought us into this world. Why take her too?" I implored, terrified by what I had discovered and _begging_ for it to be a ruse.

"Celeste," Ulfric shook his head, his laughter ebbing as he did. "Sel is right about you," he rumbled thoughtfully, meeting my gaze; the trace of amusement still present and making the icy depths shimmer.

I swallowed down a lump in my throat at his easy, comfortable use of her childhood nickname again. How wrong it sounded when said by him.

"You are a creature of absolutes," Ulfric declared, "where the world exists in black and white. You should go back to that world," he nodded toward the door leading to the main hall. "Go, and remain there, where you are comfortable. Sing songs about how all Nords hate all magic users, and all Imperials reject Talos."

He was still laughing at me, and I narrowed my eyes, despite his words making me feel small and naive. He _wanted_ to belittle me; wanted me to slink out of his palace weakened.

I shook my head as my resolve rose within me, hot and determined. "You're wrong, Ulfric," I said in a low voice. He pursed his lips at my use of his first name, but I continued before he could say anything. "Giselle doesn't know me, and neither do you. We live in the same world, and it is the one where Akatosh chose _me_ to be His Dragonborn. Remember that, next time you look upon my sister. Remember that, next time you talk to your generals, or stand before your armies," I raised my eyebrows to him. "Remember that some of them only follow you because of _me_."

I spun on my heels and charged from the war room before he could reply. "Because Divines know, I remind myself of that very fact several times a day," I muttered regretfully.

–

I was such a mess of adrenaline as I marched away that I didn't realise I had exited the Palace of the Kings until I felt tiny flakes of snow kissing my cheeks.

Halting, I glanced up, confused and wondering if the snow was real; if _I_ was real. Thick, low snow clouds were aloft.

I huffed at the sight of the closed-in skies; whiteness puffed before me as I breathed.

 _What just happened?_

 _No. Do not even think on it,_ I changed my mind, shaking my head and charging on. _Get out of Windhelm. Get as far away from Windhelm as you can, before you think on it._

If I stopped and allowed myself to recount what had occurred; what I had _learned_ , I would crumble. I was still in the cold, grey heart of my enemy's fortress. I had to maintain the pretence that I was my sister, if I, and my friends, were to make it out of the city alive.

I strode purposefully to the inn, ignoring the looks cast my way by the townsfolk and officers that I passed. _They will be upstairs in Candlehearth Hall,_ I assured myself. _It is where Hadvar said we should meet, if we were split up._

Barely taking notice of anything but a change in temperature and humidity as I entered the inn through its side door, I thundered up the stairs and glanced around the upper common; my eyes wide. An urgency to leave pressed upon me and I felt like a wild, desperate thing as I searched the room.

The music stopped, making me aware that there had been music to start with, but I had failed to notice it until it was absent.

I spied the resident bard; a Dunmer woman dressed in creamy-white with wild hair the colour of flames. Her eyes were fixed on me, startled; her hands poised over the strings of her lute cradled in her lap.

It took me another moment to realise that the inn was silent, and both patrons and staff alike were watching me. No, not watching me – watchful _of_ me, as though I were a snake dropped into a pit of mice and they weren't certain who I would strike at first.

Around the central hearth, a familiar head appeared. Lydia's eyes widened and glanced me up and down when she saw me, but only for a second, and then she was on her feet.

"Break's over, lads," she chorused. "What are our orders, Commander?" she asked as she hastened over; her green eyes full of relief.

I blinked as I nodded. Around a scratchiness in my throat, I did my best to emulate Giselle's snipe again. "We've been reassigned; that is all you need to know. Come, we leave at once," I nodded to her, and the men as they also emerged.

Farkas looked surly yet somehow uncertain at the same time; an expression which made him appear younger. Vilkas wore no expression, though his silvery eyes were glazed with a raw fury. I wondered what they were picking up from me at that moment? My confusion? Fear? Anger? Had the inn been too far for them to sense what had occurred during my interview with Stormcloak?

I met Vilkas' eyes and narrowed my own, ordering in a low voice, "Ensure that we are not followed."

My shield-brother nodded once.

Before I turned to lead them out, for in front of even this audience appearances had to be maintained, I caught sight of Hadvar.

He stepped toward me with no external signs of concern or fondness betrayed by his manner, but I could see through his facade.

His eyes flickered to the axe at my hip. Hadvar seemed just as furious as Vilkas at that moment; just as coiled, and guarded.

Of course he was angry, I reasoned. As the axe was still in my possession, it was as clear as day that Whiterun was going to be attacked.

But I couldn't help feeling as though this fresh knowledge had only added to his anger over something else, and as I led my party from the inn and toward the stables, I had to wonder; what had they done – what had _they_ learned, while we had been separated?

–

We maintained a tense silence as we rode our mounts as fast as we dared along the roads leading south. The afternoon was frigid; the snow had set in, but for once, the cold could not reach me.

I tried to plan ahead, for improvisation had not served me as well as I had hoped today. My duty to Jarl Balgruuf was done; my duty to my shield-brothers would come next. We would spend the night at Mixwater mill, and then split up. I would go north with the twins and Lydia would take the axe back to Whiterun in my stead. Once I had freed Vilkas and Farkas from their wolves, I would make directly for High Hrothgar, despite the impending attack on my new home; on those I loved. It might be months, years even, before I could return to Whiterun, so I needed to put it, and what lay ahead for its people, out of my mind. Others would fight this battle.

Right. So, Lydia to Whiterun, Companions to Ysgramor's tomb, and Hadvar would leave…

I pushed back my combined dismay over leaving both him _and_ Whiterun, and forced myself to be logical. There was more happening here than two young fools in love; we were not at liberty to follow our hearts. Hadvar would go to Solitude to advise General Tullius of what had occurred, so that the Empire might assemble the aide that Jarl Balgruuf would undoubtedly now request of the Imperial Legion.

I mulled over and over this plan as though it were a mantra to sustain my outward calm; a distraction from the discovery that my sister, my _twin_ , was entangled with Ulfric Stormcloak.

–

Nobody spoke until we had tied off the horses and trudged into the worker's cottage.

The moment I stepped into the dark, now cold common room, the door was closed behind me, and Lydia swept me into a fierce hug.

"By the _Gods_ , little one," she sounded strained; her hand rising to my tangled hair to hold me to her. "What did he _do_ to you?"

"Give her some air," Vilkas instructed Lydia gently.

"Give her to me," Hadvar spoke over Vilkas in a rush.

I felt his hand on my shoulder; gentle and tentative, and so unlike Stormcloak's rough grasp that I wanted to weep. Lydia let go as Hadvar turned me, and I gratefully fell against him, burying my face in his chest. Comforted by his closeness at once, I clutched at the front of his armour and shuddered out a focussing breath.

"I have never been so afraid in all my life," Hadvar hissed into my hair. " _Why_ did you go in _alone_? We could have regrouped – figured out a way to make them-"

"Stop, please," I managed to get a word in, though my voice was wavering and weak. Hadvar held me tighter to him, but said no more; his form trembling with restraint.

I remained in his arms, my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the cottage. My companions didn't speak, but I could hear all that they did; the snap of twigs; the tap-tap of a knife as it chopped something on the table; the strike of a flint; the crackle of fire; a kettle being filled with water. A symphony that promised refuge and solace, led by the soothing, rhythmic _thump-thump_ of Hadvar's heart.

I breathed deep, calming breaths, steeling myself for the task ahead. They were part of this; our plight was not all about me and they needed to know what I had discovered. All of it.

When I felt able to speak, I sighed into Hadvar's chest, though kept my eyes shut so I would not have to look upon him in Stormcloak armour again. "Whiterun is going to war," I murmured.

He shuffled; his hands slid to my waist, then he leaned back to observe me. I turned up to meet his stormy-grey gaze and the regret I saw there made my heart twist and ache.

"Why do you look at _me_ like that?" I asked quietly; my voice barely a croak.

Hadvar's brow furrowed in confusion and the look was gone. "Like what?"

I reached up to lift the open-faced Stormcloak helm off his head. "As though I have broken your heart," I shuddered, casting the helmet away; I cared not where, and it clanged noisily against the floor beyond us. I thought I heard Farkas curse in alarm.

I implored quietly; "What happened to you all in Windhelm?"

Hadvar's hold on my waist tightened and his eyes seemed brighter. "In due time," he said thickly.

 _Gods, something_ _ **did**_ _happen to them._

I bit my bottom lip, my eyes pleading. "Are you all right?"

Hadvar loosened his hold and took a step back, motioning toward the hearth. "Come. You are cold," he sighed, flickering me an uncertain glance. "And we have a long night ahead of us."

–

As dispassionately as I could manage, I detailed all that had occurred in Ulfric Stormcloak's war room.

I left nothing untold, though I glossed over the moment Ulfric had forced himself on me. It had been how I had discovered the nature of his relationship with my sister, so while I could not pretend it had never happened, I made sure not to elaborate, for Hadvar's sake as much as my own. While my companions reacted with varying degrees of outrage, and Hadvar stood swiftly and paced closer to the fire when I told them, he returned readily and sat again, grasping my hand and holding it securely for the rest of my report.

"That is the whole of it," I finished, blinking back the tears that had risen over the course of my speech. I had acted rashly, I came to realise, through reliving the moments. Had I been more careful – better prepared even – I might have been able to convince Stormcloak to end the war tonight. I should have done anything – and _everything_ – within my power to ensure his acceptance of Balgruuf's offer.

But I hadn't. I had been proud and too ready to dredge up my personal grudge against him. I had used _FUS_ on him, for Shor's sake!

"This certainly puts a new light on Giselle's involvement in the war," Vilkas grumbled, sitting back and crossing his arms. "It sounds as though they have been... _acquainted_ , for some time."

"It explains, and confirms...many things," I shuddered, closing my eyes. Her aloofness toward our family during her visits home. Her desire to return to her _friends_. The Stormcloaks using our garden to flee Solitude on the night of the High King's murder. The Empire's willingness to detain me when I emerged from Stormcloak's tent on the borders. _All of it._

While I didn't understand _how_ they had first met or overcome their individual prejudices, I had to wonder if it even mattered. It was what it was.

But it _did_ give me some hint of why the Stormcloaks were afraid of Giselle. If Ulfric Stormcloak won this war, she might become the High Queen of Skyrim, should he legitimise whatever it was that they had together – and given her status and my family name, the match would not be frowned upon. The Stormcloaks must have been cautious of the influence her position naturally held over him.

"An attachment, a marriage even, would certainly assist their cause," Lydia rested her arm on the table and her head on her hand as she glanced to me. "The Dragonborn and Ulfric Stormcloak, united for life. It would be as though the Divines had sanctioned his desire to become High King," she shook her head, frowning. "Given that they are _not_ wed – to be honest, Celeste, I wouldn't be surprised if the relationship was a ruse, put in place to rally more support for Ulfric's cause."

Shuddering, I shook my head. "No. The way he..." I faltered, glancing down to my hands. My open palms looked so small and worthless, rested on my lap. My tongue stalled and twisted, refusing to speak of how _real_ his kiss and grasping hands and intense gaze had felt. We had been out of sight of his armies. If it were a ploy, he would have had no cause to do what he did.

Reconsidering the course of the conversation, I looked up to her and decided it was time to move on. "Lydia I need you to leave at dawn with Balgruuf's axe. Whiterun must be warned, and fortified against attack."

"Me?" Lydia looked betrayed as her brows furrowed.

"Yes," I glanced away and fixed Farkas with a steady expression, for I feared that if I turned to Vilkas his very look would make me falter. "I am to travel north with my Companions. We have business to attend to, before I can make the journey to High Hrothgar."

Farkas looked confused, and glanced warily to his brother. "But if Whiterun is going to war..." he drawled uncertainly.

"Exactly," Vilkas supported swiftly. I closed my eyes to avoid looking upon him still.

"Our duty was to return you to Whiterun, and that is what we shall do," Vilkas instructed pointedly. "Companion _duties_ will have to wait. The city will need all the hands it can assemble, if we are to make it through a direct attack."

Frustrated by his undermining my plan so swiftly, my determination to do what was right and _finally_ free them swelled. My eyes flew open, flashing as I turned to him. "Then this is where we say good bye," I snapped, "for if we are not to fulfil my oath at Ysgramor's tomb, I have business with the Greybeards that must be attended to."

For only a fraction of a second, Vilkas looked hurt, but the look was gone so swiftly that I might have imagined it. His expression hardened, and he grimaced.

Hadvar squeezed my hand. "Celeste," he whispered consolingly. "You don't have to-"

"Don't try to stop me," I turned to Hadvar, my eyes filling with tears again, but my anger at myself was too thick to allow them to fall. "I will be of no use to Whiterun in battle, and no use to Skyrim so unprepared as I am. I _must_ go."

" _Damn_ the Greybeards," Vilkas spat. His brutal tone made my heart leap and I visibly startled.

He was leaning forward and his eyes were hard, and cold. "They hide upon their mountaintop, unaware of all going on below them. Do you _wish_ to be their puppet, to become as blinded as they?" he challenged. "An unfeeling anomaly whose destiny is to be determined by an indeterminable amount of training from a group of reclusive old men? Is _that_ how you truly believe you can best serve Skyrim?" he thundered, rising to his feet.

"Vilkas, steady on-" Hadvar interjected.

"No, for her sake, she will hear this," Vilkas shot him a warning glance as he placed his hands on the table and leaned toward me. "You have more feeling in your soul than any person I have ever met. You don't run away when things get complicated – every time it has, I have seen you stand your ground, and fight. The Celeste Passero I know would not turn her back on her people in their time of need. And _that_ ," he emphasised, "is what makes you the Dragonborn. Not your ability to use the thu'um, or a recess within your mind that is inhabited by some ethereal wyrm, but your humanity – your _compassion_."

Glaring at his last, I stood as well, detangling my hand from Hadvar's in the process. "Will my _compassion_ make Skyrim safe again?" I scathed quietly. "Do you think a dragon would stop burning villages with its breath and listen as I sing it a pretty song about togetherness?" my voice rose in volume and passion.

"It might!" he fired.

I ignored his deliberate, yet obscure reference to the hold I had over their wolves. A dragon was not a werewolf; a dragon did not have _humanity_ to appeal to. My volume increased and I shook as I spoke. "All my _training_ amounted to nothing before Ulfric Stormcloak, and he is just a _man_. Whiterun is now a _target_ , because of _my_ failure!" I spat, clenching my teeth. "If Akatosh really did put a dragon in me, then I must find somebody who can help me make sense of why, and strive to _use_ it, as the _Divines_ intended," I insisted, taking a step back and shaking my head in the face of his determination to make me stay. I had never expected him to try to stop me from going to High Hrothgar, and realised then that his wolf must have made him speak out. _It_ wouldn't want me to go on alone.

I searched Vilkas for truth to my theory. His shoulders fell and his eyes betrayed anguish before they turned down.

Hadvar's hand found mine again and he tried to urge me back to my seat. I remained standing for the moment, though I twined my fingers with his in thanks for his gesture; his contact.

"There is no point in this arguing," Lydia spoke up quietly, breaking through the tension. "We love you, Celeste. We are trying to protect you," she sighed. "Though some of us go about expressing our fondness by contrary means," she added with an unimpressed glance in Vilkas' direction.

Lydia's words encouraged me check my tone before I spoke up again, and behind my frustration there was only confusion and fear of loneliness to be found. I didn't want to leave either, but I had little choice.

"You knew that this day was approaching," I made my confusion plain, though my shield-brother no longer looked at me. He would _feel_ it; nothing could stop him from feeling it. "If you will not go north with me now, then Mixwater mill," I glanced disparagingly about the cottage, "must be where we say good bye."

Silence met my words, and for a time the only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the whistling wind rattling the windows to disturb it.

Finally Hadvar detangled his hand from mine and pushed his chair back, rising.

I followed his movements, meeting him with questions that I left unasked. His eyes met mine fleetingly, then he looked at his feet. His shoulders sagged as he made for the dormitories.

"Where are you going?" I asked; my voice small as I sank into my seat, hoping it might bring him back.

"To pack," Hadvar sighed, glancing back over his shoulder. "You're right. You're always right. It's time to say good bye."

Sitting up straighter, I glanced to Vilkas, Farkas and Lydia briefly, before calling after him. "What, _now_?"

He was out of sight and didn't respond. Sitting back, I cursed myself for becoming frustrated with my friends, with those who I considered _family_ , and after a moment's consideration, pushed my own chair back and stood. Everybody appeared to be hurting, but Hadvar's unhappiness seemed somehow deeper than our impending farewell and the prospect of another battle in the war he had been part of since it began.

"I'm sorry for yelling, Vilkas," I murmured, turning away.

"Where are _you_ going?" Lydia asked, perturbed.

"The same place as Hadvar," I hesitated, taking a steadying breath before confirming tightly; "To _pack_."

–

I stood in the open doorway to the men's dormitory. My bag, lute and bow were in the other room; it would be the work of a moment to retrieve them. Something else, something the others hadn't told me or perhaps didn't even know was plaguing him, and I yearned to lift the weight from his shoulders, if I could, before we parted.

His back was to me and he still wore the Stormcloak armour. He was sorting through his pack, and his Legion armour was laid out on the bed beside it. The sight of it called up a memory of our journey from Helgen to Riverwood. I had knelt in the flowers, overcome by the beauty of the valley laid out before me, and when I had turned back to Hadvar, the misty look in his eyes had given me reason to pause.

 _That was the moment_ , I realised with a somewhat exasperated smile. _That was the moment I started to fall in love with him._

Made steadier by the happy memory, I stepped into the room and to his side.

"Hadvar," I cleared my throat, brushing my hand over his shoulder.

He glanced at me, smiling a small smile that did little to dispel the torment I found in his eyes.

I returned the smile, though I felt sad. "Be careful," I tried to laugh. "I will sing _Age of Aggression_ , to bring you back to me," I warned in jest.

"I'm here," he spoke and turned fully, placing his hands on my shoulders; his tone quiet but reassuring. "You know that I don't like good byes," he murmured.

"I remember," I hushed. "But...I can't help feeling that there's more to this..." I lifted my hand; pressed my palm to his chest, over his heart. "This..." I searched, trying not to lose my train of thought as I gazed up into his eyes. "Hadvar, tell me what happened in Windhelm?" I asked softly.

Hadvar's eyes flickered to his pack, his armour, and then back to me, full of melancholy. His hands drifted down my arms to settle on my hips. "Time is too short for us, my love," he murmured. "Let us stop torturing ourselves by reliving the horrors of the day," he ducked his head.

I leaned back a little, searching his eyes for the truth, and he stilled. "Tell me?" I whispered.

"Can't I kiss you first?" he begged.

Who was I to refuse? When I didn't answer, he glanced hesitatingly from my eyes to my mouth, then waited no longer and pressed his lips softly to mine. He groaned with relief when I wrapped my arms around his neck and tilted my head to deepen the moment. For a time, the past and future were distant and insubstantial as we took solace from each other's presence.

He broke our kiss suddenly, only to lower his mouth to my neck, and I grasped his shoulders for purchase as I felt his hands fumbling with the buckles of the Stormcloak armour I had worn to Windhelm.

"Hadvar," I murmured, breathless. "What are-?"

"I want you out of this armour," he lifted his head, clenching at the blue cuirass and tugging. His eyes flickered over my face, his pupils dilated and his eyes longing. "I want _you_ ," he added in a murmur.

My fingers drifted up to the spot on the back of his neck that I knew he liked. "Likewise," I whispered. "But Hadvar," I leaned back again, shaking my head. "Not like this. Not _now_. I remember what you said to me yesterday. You would only regret it."

"I will _never_ regret you," he vowed; his breath warm as he smoothed the cuirass across one of my shoulders, then ducked down to kiss the exposed skin gently.

"Yes, you would," I closed my eyes at the sensation, my mind at war with my body. He was warm and comforting and _here_ , and the opposite of everything that had happened today. He could cancel out the bad, distract me from the painful truths – and I could be the same for him. I gasped in surprise as he clenched the Stormcloak cuirass I wore, easing it up. He must have managed to unbuckle it without my noticing, because it slid up without any resistance. I lifted my arms as he drew it over my head, and he threw it aside carelessly, his arms encircling me again and his fingers gripping the under tunic I had worn beneath it.

"That's better," he whispered, holding me back from him with a brief, playful look up and down.

"Not quite," I arched an eyebrow, glancing over him pointedly.

Swiftly, he released me and tugged the cuirass he wore up and over his head. As with the other, he cast it away uncaringly. "Better?" he asked, his voice rough and low.

I swallowed as I drank in the sight of him. Hadvar bore my roaming gaze, his exposed chest heaving as he watched me with a voracious expression.

Better was an understatement. When he'd removed the armour, he'd taken off his under tunic as well, and now stood before me in only a pair of dark, loose trousers that were hanging low on his hips. His chest, torso, broad shoulders, and strong arms were bared to me, and he was _beautiful_.

Transfixed, I rested my hands experimentally on his forearms; brushed my fingertips up, along his arms; placed a soft, gentle kiss to his sternum. He twitched, but remained silent and watchful of my every move.

"This isn't fair," I breathed as I leaned against him, closing my eyes as he wrapped his arms around me. Between us, my hands roamed where they dared, caressing soft skin and corded muscle. "You are teasing me, now," I whispered plaintively.

"Never," he murmured, placing a kiss to the top of my head.

"Then why?" I retreated only far enough to look up to him. My eyes felt wide as I held his stormy gaze for a moment, before remembering that I had questioned him. "Why change your mind now," I whispered, "when there is no privacy, and no time?"

Hadvar remained quiet for a while, and I leaned against him again while I waited for him to consider, running my fingertips through the dusting of dark red hair on his chest.

Eventually, he sighed and regretfully stepped back from me, shaking his head. "You are right, again."

Masking my disappointment, I cleared my throat. "I am?"

"Yes," he turned away, a little frustrated, running his hand through his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed we had shared the previous night. For a moment, he rifled around in his bag, then he withdrew a small, wide-toothed comb, and shuffled back further on the bed, offering me his free hand.

"Can I help you with your hair, love?" he asked; his eyes devoted.

"Oh," I flushed, suddenly embarrassed by the reminder; it must have been in a dreadful state by now. Taking his hand, I let him turn me around and guide me back so that I sat on the edge of the bed with him. His legs swung either side of me, pressed alongside my own, and for a moment I thought, _hoped_ , that he would run his hand along my thigh, draw me back onto his chest, ease my hair aside and resume kissing my neck.

He didn't, though – and instead began to test the comb against various sections of hair, hitting lots of snarls. He was moving very gently, though, and soon had a small handful of curls in his hand to work at.

I wanted to smile back over my shoulder at him; wanted to say _something_ , but remained still, and quiet. With his hands occupied, I was certain that he would talk soon, if I left him room to do so.

He did, though faltered over his choice of words several times. "I...got talking to one of the staff at the inn," he murmured, laying the detangled section of hair in his grasp over my shoulder. At once he began to work out a second section from the dark mass.

"Hmm?" I prompted serenely. I had to admit that I found this activity...soothing.

"I was going _mad_ thinking about you on your own with..." he stopped, and it was a moment before he restarted. "I thought to make myself of some use, and directed some casual inquiries after news of your sister," he sighed.

I tried not to react, but I couldn't help but tense.

"You don't need to hear this," he immediately began to retreat.

"No, please," I whispered, forcing myself to relax, glancing over my shoulder. "I will not hide from the truth."

He frowned and nodded, tilting my head gently so that it faced front again before he resumed combing the section in his hand.

"The woman I spoke to...talked of an event that had occurred a few weeks earlier. I told her that I had been away," I felt him shrug behind me, "and she was eager to gossip."

"What event?"

"A...very public execution," he faltered again, and I had the thought that he was checking me, again, for my response.

I couldn't help but react. "Soldiers from the Pale?" I whispered fearfully.

"No," he exhaled swiftly, his hands busy with my hair again. "No, this was a Stormcloak execution, in the main square of Windhelm."

At once, I understood in part what he was going to relate, and why he was so hesitant to speak of it. My mouth dried as I made myself ask; "Who did she kill?"

After a tight pause, Hadvar continued regretfully. "A...another soldier. A man who I considered a brother, before we went to war," he added in a mournful murmur.

I felt the blood drain from my face and I half turned to face him. " _Hadvar_ ," I lifted my hand to his cheek in sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he encouraged me to turn away once more, and resumed combing my hair before he continued with; "Ralof...made his choice."

" _Ralof_?" I confirmed, aghast. "Giselle killed _Ralof_?" I couldn't help but turn again as I remembered the man who had captured me, who had spoken to me of a voice of truth; the man whom Ulfric had ordered extract information from me before the camp had been set upon by the Imperial army.

My eyes widened as I regarded Hadvar's downcast expression; another memory surfaced. Hadvar and I had crossed paths with Ralof while we had been escaping Helgen. The two men had yelled at each another briefly, before we had gone our separate ways.

"Oh, _Hadvar_ ," I whispered, leaning against him and wrapping my arms around his neck. "Why would she _do_ such a thing?"

"Nobody is certain," Hadvar exhaled weightily, shuddering a little as he did. "Though it is understood that Ulfric Stormcloak encouraged it," he huffed. "I will spare you the details of how she did it," he muttered.

Closing my eyes, I grasped Hadvar a little tighter as a fear of what my sister had become surfaced. _This_ was why everybody was so afraid of her; it had nothing to do with her relationship with Stormcloak himself. "I...don't know what to say," I admitted quietly, shamefully.

"You don't need to say anything," Hadvar spoke gently, grasping my thick under tunic tightly. "Ralof made his choice," he repeated as he leaned forward, resting his chin on top of my head.

"As did Giselle," I added darkly. One day – perhaps years from now, sure, but one day – I _would_ face my sister. And I would _make_ her answer. For _everything._


	40. Look Again

_Chapter 40: Look Again_

Hadvar's grief over Ralof was plain now that I knew to look for it. While he didn't speak of his friend's death again, I noticed a sorrow I had not seen before in him in every move he made.

I was no expert on grief so I didn't try to force his feelings out of him, for what would we do then? We had neither the leisure time nor the desire to be immobilised by our sorrows. So, while I longed to ease his strife; to ask him more about their connection so that he might remember Ralof as the friend he once knew, I kept my questions to myself.

I remained with him while he prepared to leave for Solitude, and helped him to dress in his Legion armour. I focused on what his report to the General might entail, and how long he thought soldiers might take to gather in support of Whiterun. I was aware now that planning for the future helped him to feel secure and confident, and if it would help to distract him, I would plan with him.

I talked of anything that didn't relate to our lost loved ones, and would have readily continued talking to him in this manner long into the night, had the Divines permitted it. But as Hadvar had said before he'd asked to kiss me; our time was too short.

I understood now that when he had spoken of our time, Ralof's execution had been fresh in his mind. He had meant it in the context of the briefness, the fragility of our very lives, though I had not realised it. But it explained his desperation; his fervour; his desire to make love to me then and there, despite what he had promised to me, and himself, the previous night.

"I'm ready," he announced quietly, standing tall and shouldering his pack. His expression was flat and I could tell just by looking at him that his mind was already miles away on what my audience had set in motion. Maybe it was better this way, otherwise he would have to think about what we had learned, and the past.

I stood at once, faltering as I made to step towards him; yearning to hold him, but not wishing to make our good bye any more difficult than it had to be. "Must you leave at once?"

Hadvar nodded and said nothing. His eyes had that faraway look about them as they flickered over me sadly, and I dipped my head, unable to bear his gaze as I felt my throat grow thick with tears.

 _Convince him to stay the night_ , I prompted myself. It would not be a great challenge to change his mind, and we could take comfort in each other; put off the wants of the world for a few more hours. I _knew_ that I could convince him to stay. But it would have been for the wrong reasons, and selfish to boot.

Legion boots entered my line of sight and I glanced up hastily, flushing at where my thoughts had brought me, but asking him to stay anyway, with my eyes.

His large hand brushed over my shoulder, then settled on my arm. "I will write to you at High Hrothgar," he promised softly, his breath shuddering as he looked away from me. "Even if you never receive my letters; know that I am _always_ writing to you."

I nodded shallowly. "Can I write you back?"

A trace of uncertainty marred his sadness as his eyes flickered back to me. "You could…try."

"Perhaps I could address them to Castle Dour?" I offered with hope. "The Legion would keep letters for you there," I made myself smile.

He nodded this time, and tried to mirror my smile. "I would like that," he answered pensively, before he lowered his hand and took mine. He stared at it for a moment in silence, inspecting it thoughtfully and running his thumb over my palm in small, circular motions. Then he closed his eyes and the gentle, soothing movements stopped.

"I must go."

There was no point in dragging this out. Between us was a silent reminder that demanded we be grateful for what we had; at least we _were_ both alive to say good bye to one another.

Silently, we returned to the common room. I held Hadvar's hand as I looked between my friends. They asked a few, brief questions, and Hadvar answered them accordingly. They rose; we all made for the door.

Once we were outside, Hadvar let go of my hand and moved toward his horse. "Tell Jarl Balgruuf that I'll be advising Tullius to put the legions the Empire can commit on standby in Rorikstead. That he need only send word to the inn there, should he desire our support against the Stormcloaks," he outlined as he tied his pack to the back of his saddle. With a sigh, he added, "Make sure that he is aware that the Legion will not move in without his express consent."

"He will give it," Lydia assured swiftly. "Neutrality serves nobody when you're dead, and Stormcloak has declared war on Whiterun."

"That he has," Hadvar murmured resolutely. He continued to tighten saddle straps, lost in a thoughtful silence.

I couldn't watch him prepare to leave any longer; at each passing moment I found it more difficult to breathe. I turned sideways and looked down, but saw little of the wooden planks of the porch. My hair covered my eyes, and I swallowed the lump that had muted me as I hurriedly blinked my tears away. I noted that Vilkas was beside me, and Farkas beside him; I glanced up through my curls to regard them. They were both watching Hadvar prepare with mildly speculative expressions.

What were they sensing from him? His grief for his friend? Nerves over what he had to tell the General? Something that indicated how much he disliked good byes? Or was his mind more guarded than mine; was he able to not only mask, but suppress his woes and fears? Were they sensing serenity; was the thought of the quiet, snowy roads ahead a comfort to him?

The blood drained from my face and I turned back to look at Hadvar as I realised with horrific clarity that he would be _alone_ on the roads between Windhelm and Solitude, with important – no, _crucial_ – information for the Imperial army. Information that Ulfric Stormcloak would know we hoped to relay to the General as swiftly as possible. If Hadvar never made it to Solitude – the Legion might not be able to assemble troops in time to defend Whiterun when he attacked.

And Ulfric would _know_ this. The road ahead for Hadvar would be dangerous. The last lone officer of the Legion that I had met on the northern passes had ended up thrown into a snowdrift, dead and forgotten, and robbed of her messages.

No matter how I tried to convince myself that Hadvar was up to the task of meeting whatever the Stormcloaks threw at him, I couldn't contain my panic. My training failed me, and I found that I had no idea of how to voice my concerns to him around the premonitory terror coursing through me. All I knew was that if he left now, he _would_ be captured and I would never see him again; of this I was suddenly certain.

Vilkas' hand landed on my shoulder. "You all right?" he asked in a gruff undertone.

Biting my tongue and closing my eyes so I wouldn't jump out of my own skin, I shook my head stiffly. Vilkas' hand squeezed my shoulder; a wordless offering of support, should I need to offload.

As he lowered his hand, I _did_ gasp. My eyes flew open and I turned to Vilkas, wide-eyed, as I realised there _was_ one way I could keep Hadvar, and his message, safe.

"Go with him," I quipped swiftly to my shield brother.

Vilkas frowned. " _What_ -?"

"Please," I grasped his arms in desperation, ready to beg, to offer anything he asked if he would do this for me. "You are better at hearing if there are dangers ahead than any other," I pleaded, avoiding directly referring to his gifts in case Lydia caught my words. I was speaking too quietly for Hadvar to hear.

My shield brother looked taken aback; blinked as though trying to focus. "You want me to go to _Solitude_ -?"

"Yes," I cut in. "Please Vilkas," I lowered my head to him. " _Please_ , do this for me."

" _Celeste_ ," Vilkas sounded unconvinced. "Whiterun needs-"

"All the help it can get," I finished for him again, my eyes bright as I turned up to him. "Which means that it is _imperative_ that Hadvar makes it to Solitude."

Vilkas closed his mouth and grimaced. "Oh," he murmured quietly, understanding and casting a quick, wary glance in Hadvar's direction.

Gratified that he had picked up at least _part_ of my reason for insisting on such an arrangement, he still had not agreed. On the spot, I changed the course of my immediate future, and knew that I would delay my journey to the Greybeards a thousand times more if it would ensure Hadvar's safety.

"If you will do this for me, then I will return to Whiterun with Lydia and Farkas," I swore.

Vilkas' silvery eyes drifted back to me; steady and watchful.

"What of High Hrothgar?" he drawled.

I shook my head. "I'll wait for you to return before I leave."

Vilkas huffed. "And if I return with an army on the eve of war?" he posed.

I cast him an imploring look. " _Please_ , brother," I whispered.

Before Vilkas could answer, Hadvar's voice rang out from the place where our horses were tied off.

"Well…good bye."

Fixing Vilkas with a final earnest stare, I turned around. Hadvar was mounted up and his bow and quiver were slung over his shoulders. His expression was calm, but aloof; as though he was not even a person any more.

I opened my mouth, but Vilkas spoke first.

"Wait," he called begrudgingly.

My heart swelled with relief as a slight furrow crossed Hadvar's brows. "Wait?"

Vilkas sighed, stepping forward. "Give me five minutes. I'm coming with you."

"You're _what_?" Lydia asked, surprised.

Hadvar's furrow deepened and he shook his head. "That isn't necessary."

"Good," Vilkas shrugged, half smirking in the process. "I will be glad to waste my time in this endeavour. Five minutes," Vilkas stressed, turning on his heels before Hadvar could reply and heading back into the cottage.

I approached Hadvar on his mount, drawing his attention in the wake of Vilkas' announcement. I smiled supportively when he caught my eye.

"You asked him to do this?" Hadvar asked quietly. "Why?" he seemed perplexed, not angry.

I nodded, reinforcing my smile and explaining my reasons; at least, those that didn't involve my incomprehensible sense of foreboding. We had to ensure that our message made it to Solitude; that we must anticipate Ulfric attempting to stop us from sending word to the General; that, as he had seen for himself, Vilkas always picked up on what lay ahead, well before it was in plain sight.

Hadvar accepted this with a silent nod and a small downward curl to the side of his mouth.

"It _does_ make sense to divide our numbers, actually," Lydia commented, having heard all I had outlined to Hadvar.

"And if it means you will come back to Whiterun with us," Farkas added, for _he_ had heard all that had passed between his brother and I, "then I am for it."

Hadvar's eyes flicked to me swiftly. "You're _not_ going to High Hrothgar?"

Inwardly wincing, for I did not want to admit that I had used my return to Whiterun as a bargaining tool, I held my head up and shook it, offering Hadvar another smile. "All part of the plan. I must stay with the Companions, until Vilkas returns," I supplied.

Hadvar considered this for a moment, before a small, satisfied smile appeared on his face. My heart thudded with relief at the sight of it; he had been too grim for too long.

"Good," his eyebrows rose as he nodded toward me.

Before he could elaborate, Vilkas returned, dressed in his usual Companion armour and with his backpack slung lazily over his shoulder.

"That was quick," Lydia commented shrewdly.

Vilkas cast her a wry glance and a half-smirk as he shouldered past us, making for his horse; "I don't have a pretty girl in my room to distract me from getting ready."

Farkas and Lydia both openly laughed. Hadvar turned his eyes down, also laughing, but quietly, to himself. A childish giggle threatened to burst out of me too, but I held back my laughter by biting my bottom lip as my face flamed.

While Vilkas prepared his mount, I spent a few final, precious moments with Hadvar. It was plain that everybody felt lighter; be it in the wake of this new plan, or Vilkas' timely teasing.

Hadvar extended his arm to me and I took his hand firmly in both of mine, pressing a chaste, but lingering kiss to his palm.

When I glanced up to him from under my lashes, my lips still on his hand, I saw that his cheeks had pinked and his eyes were wider; startled almost.

"What is it?" I asked curiously.

He shook his head quickly and the look was gone. Detangling his hand from mine, he leaned sideways in the saddle, brushing his fingers through my hair and placing a kiss on my forehead. "I miss you already," he murmured bitterly; his breath tickling the top of my head.

His restraint was evident, but my need to be close to him outweighed any embarrassment I felt over a public display of affection, or the teasing I might endure from my comrades. This must be love, again, I reasoned. I stood on my toes, lifting myself up to capture his lips softly; a gentle promise, a _certainty_ , that we would meet again. His hand in my hair tightened, and I lifted mine to his jaw, brushing my fingertips along the stubble as we parted for air.

"I love you," I gasped onto his lips; the words tumbling out of me.

Hadvar's eyes were bright and he looked torn between pleased and frustrated. "By the Gods, Celeste, what have you done to me?" he laughed, looking down momentarily and swallowing. "I love you so much it hurts," he glanced up, his grey depths longing as he continued to chuckle.

"Likewise," I teared up, but laughed quietly with him; a happy laugh that shone directly from the bright glow in my chest.

"Good bye Lydia; good bye, brother," Vilkas called out with a pointedly mocking quality to his lilt. "I would kiss you both, but I might fall off my horse if I tried."

Hadvar and I glanced to him, our delight shifting into amusement as we continued to laugh.

"And you'd be knocked down if you didn't fall," Farkas grunted, crossing his arms and brows at his brother.

"I don't know where that mouth of yours has been," Lydia held her hands up in defence. "No offence taken here, if you hold back."

Still laughing, I stole a glance to Hadvar, as he did to me, and we shared a final, mutually affectionate nod. Then, without feeling as though my heart was being torn from my chest any longer, I moved back to Lydia and Farkas' side.

Surprising me by the action, Farkas uncrossed his arms and slung one around my shoulder. "See you soon, hey?" he called out.

"You can count on it," Vilkas replied, clicking his heels into his horse's sides. Hadvar lifted his hand in farewell, but said nothing and then followed suit. The pair directed their mounts through the trees surrounding the worker's cottage, toward the track that would lead them to one of the roads leading west.

 _This is not a forever good bye,_ I told myself, over and over.

Lydia, Farkas and I watched them leave in silence, until we could make them out through the trees no more.

Then with a sigh, Lydia turned, shaking her head as she made for the cottage. "We should prepare to leave, too."

"Mm," Farkas agreed, dropping his arm to follow her. "You coming, sister?" he asked.

I felt colder suddenly, possibly entirely from the loss of Farkas' presence, and nodded, turning hastily to join them as I held my chilled arms and rubbed swiftly. "Yes. Let's go home," I sighed resolutely, before I had realised what I said.

Home. Yes, I supposed Whiterun was home, for the now.

 _The Jarl will be thrilled._

–

So, rather than spend the night at the cottage by the mill, as we had originally planned, Farkas, Lydia and I opted to leave as soon as we could make ourselves ready.

I think that we were all a little wary of what Stormcloak might send after us now that the idea had occurred. While I was certain that he would do all in his power to prevent a message from reaching Solitude, and while Ulfric had directed me to give his melodramatic message about the sun rising over Whiterun to Balgruuf as though he intended for us to precede his attack, it made sense that he might also try to prevent us from reaching Whiterun too swiftly. Whiterun barely forewarned would be easier to take hold of.

Vilkas had done as I had asked in the tavern, and ensured that we hadn't been followed when we had left Windhelm, but I still grew more anxious of delay as we prepared our horses. The sun had set minutes ago, and the chill of the mountains seeped through my armour and turned my blood to ice.

I breathed a little easier once we were mounted up and on our way home. Darkness took hold of the land, and the colour was leeched from the skies as we descended the roads leading south and west. There wasn't a cloud to be seen from one horizon to the other, which made the approaching night somehow colder. The stars twinkled brighter as each minute passed, and before long, Masser rose, casting its vaguely pinkish hue over the icy paths; its meagre light really only serving the shadows, making them denser and more pronounced than they had previously been.

Farkas led our group, with Lydia riding behind me this time. Silence was our ally for hours, and the pace we maintained made it impossible for talk if we could have managed it.

I had to admit that I felt guilty over my swift decision to defer my journey to High Hrothgar, yet again. Fragments of Vilkas' argument in the worker's cottage kept flitting through my mind, convincing me that I was doing right by the people of Skyrim by remaining within it, which would alleviate my concerns momentarily. But within minutes, I was agonising over the unknowns, and the certainty that the longer I put the journey off, the harder it would be to say good bye.

But, what good would I do Skyrim if I disappeared for – what, it could be _years –_ to return armed with a powerful thu'um and find the cities laid to waste by the war? No, Vilkas was right; if the people of Skyrim were who the Dragonborn was to protect, then today, I was best placed _with_ the people of Skyrim.

This was the vein of the arguments I devised to assuage my guilt each time it arose, even while I understood that they were all, ultimately, excuses. It didn't help that I had no idea what was expected of me by the Greybeards, or how long they might keep me with them. I had heard it said that Ulfric Stormcloak had spent ten years of his life at the Throat of the World, when he had learned to Shout.

Sometime close to midnight, while I continued to chew over the multiple reasons I had to stay with my friends in Whiterun, Farkas slowed his mount and quietly called for us to halt.

I pulled my horse up beside his; the mare making an undignified noise at the quick change of pace. I reached forward to pat her nose and whisper calm nothings in her flickering ears as Lydia slowed beside me.

"What is it?" she asked my shield brother; her eyes on the horizon before us. "More Stormcloaks?"

Dreading the thought, I sat up straight at once, my eyes widening as I strained to see through the darkness.

"No," Farkas grumbled. I glanced to him, then followed his gaze. His eyes weren't on the road, but a shadowed copse by the riverside. " _Mer_."

I gave Farkas an unimpressed look; I had not known him to be prejudiced before. "…and this is a problem because…?"

His silvery eyes flickered to me, narrowed and as unimpressed as I felt. "Because they're waiting for you," he replied.

"How can you possibly know that?" Lydia asked in a laughing tone, though I could sense she was a little unnerved by Farkas' grim certainty.

"An ambush?" I frowned, glancing back to the dark grouping of trees in the distance. "Why?"

"I don't know, or care," Farkas turned his mount around, directing her south, off the road. "We're not riding into their trap. C'mon."

I followed Farkas without a word, though I did cast Lydia a worried glance before I went after him.

My housecarl looked torn; I could tell that she wanted to know more and perhaps discuss the matter, but she followed my lead.

"Why would _mer_ be waiting to ambush you?" I heard her grumble as we set off after Farkas along a path that took us through a tree line and around a small cluster of boulders, putting the copse and its offending inhabitants out of view.

My nerves settled the further we rode away from the road. Glancing up, as we continued riding south for a time, I could clearly see the Throat of the World; a dark, foreboding smudge spearing the skies. I swallowed as I regarded it, unable to shake the feeling that someone up there was, at that very moment, looking down, somewhat accusingly, on me.

I averted my eyes. I had made my choice, and when the time came to appear before the Greybeards, I would justify my actions.

Farkas led us on a lengthy route around what he warned was a giant's camp, and then called back that it should be safe to make for road. But no sooner had we laid eyes on it that Farkas cursed under his breath.

He turned his mare back, leading her into the uneven, rocky woods, motioning for us to do the same.

I did as he bade at once, but caught Lydia giving him another pointed, questioning look.

"They _followed_ us," he grumbled as he passed her. "Must know where we're headed," he hissed.

After retreating behind another outcropping, Farkas instructed us to dismount.

This time, Lydia followed without complaining, and I was the confused one. "Shouldn't we keep going?" I whispered to him, uncertain of how far away our pursuers might be. "Even if the going is slow, we will always be faster on horseback."

Farkas shook his head, unsheathing his blades. In the corner of my eye, I saw Lydia unsheathe her sword.

"Get your bow ready," Farkas murmured. "If we can't take these bastards, you run back here, get your horse, and go – go _anywhere_ – got it?" he commanded.

Frowning and taken aback, I shook my head. "That's never going to happen," I told him truthfully. "Why don't we just go and take a look?" I proposed, adopting his brother's tactic of observing before attacking. "Perhaps they are couriers, or they might even need my help?"

Farkas grimaced, and Lydia spoke up. "I agree. Let's hide close to the road, and see what we're dealing with before we do anything rash," she whispered. I assumed she meant before Farkas dived into battle, but she turned on me next, pointing her finger at me. "No thu'um. Not unless there is no other choice."

Grateful that the darkness of night could hide my flush, I closed my mouth and nodded.

"Fine, we look first," Farkas grumbled. "But if I don't like who I see up there, be ready to cover me," he directed Lydia.

My housecarl pursed her lips but nodded, then both of my companions stepped out before me, shifting around rocks and trees and undergrowth with a surprisingly speedy stealth. I hastened after them, mirroring their movements and hiding when they hid as I attempted to place my feet exactly where they had placed theirs.

Before long, the pale road swam into view between the trees. I ducked down between Farkas and Lydia, my bow before me and an arrow nocked and ready to go. Farkas was glancing around swiftly, then nudged me, motioning toward a fallen log. Nodding, I rushed to it and ducked down, peering over the top. Lydia settled beside me after a second, and Farkas pressed his back to the trunk on my other side. I watched him for a moment, wondering what exactly he was sensing from our pursuers. Farkas took a deep breath and closed his eyes, which seemed to centre him. When he opened his eyes, I was grateful to see that they were still their regular silvery colour.

Satisfied that he was in control of his beast, I glanced out over our cover, scanning the road as Lydia was doing. Whoever Farkas had sensed was still out of sight.

When I turned back and checked my arrow was ready to fire, I caught sight of my small, pale hands, as deft as they were currently being, and wondered that they weren't shaking. I took a moment to check myself, and realised that despite Farkas' warning that we were being followed, I felt no fear – only a hollow sort of curiosity.

How was that _possible_?

Lydia placed a warning hand on my shoulder, and I blinked away my wonder, focusing on the now. Turning my eyes back to the road, I scanned the breaks between the trees, and after a moment, caught the movement that must have warranted Lydia's hand. Tall, silent, shaded figures.

I could make nothing out of their features, but what I did determine was that there were three of them. They didn't appear to be in any great hurry; striding casually along the road, as though time was of no importance.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of these strangers, and wondering what they could possibly want of _me_ , I glanced ahead and spied a moonlit break in the trees that would allow me to see a little more of them than snatches of shaded limbs. I wanted to _know_ who I was dealing with. I had faced Ulfric Stormcloak and walked out of his palace; his city. If I had to, I could face these newcomers.

As Vilkas might have said were he with us; the Gods were smiling upon me – but perhaps in an ironic sort of way. When the first of their party stepped into the gap, they – he, I was fairly certain, by the broadness of the shoulders – held up a hand, and halted, unknowingly giving me ample time to take in the sight of him. The light being reflected by Masser and Secunda – for both were now risen – caught the metal buckles on his dark cloak, and made the pale cheekbones I could see around his hood almost luminous.

 _Thalmor,_ I realised, somewhat incredulously.

And like that, my calm was shattered. My heart thumped wildly and I stared, terrified of moving lest they see us. I had been stupid to not understand immediately that it was the _Thalmor_ pursuing us when Farkas had said _mer_ , but I had not even considered them. As with most sons and daughters of Skyrim, I had _avoided_ anything to do with the Thalmor for my entire life.

Why would the _Thalmor_ be seeking me? Was my shield brother mistaken; were we perhaps simply travelling the same road on the same night as this trio of Aldmeri Dominion agents?

My breath caught in my throat as the figure on the road turned, and though his face was obscured by shadows now, it was clear that he was searching the woods. At once knew that they _were_ looking for me. _There are no coincidences where the Thalmor are concerned,_ I reminded myself. With a pang, I recalled that it had been my father who had told me that.

The Altmer within view held out his arms. Not a sound was uttered from his lips, but a purple ball of energy pooled between his hands and was swiftly released, all in the blink of an eye.

Lydia bit out a whispered curse beside me.

I froze as the purple energy expanded toward us, faster than we could possibly run. It was inevitable that whatever he had cast would strike us, and I stood, mustering my will to _FUS_. Perhaps the power of the thu'um could knock back the spell.

Before I could open my mouth, Farkas grabbed my arm and hauled me back down next to him. As the purple spell washed over us; clumping around us but leaving us entirely unharmed, I glanced furiously to my shield-brother.

Lowering his hand, he shook his head at me in warning, but said nothing. The purpleness gathered around his form moved with him. In an obscure moment I understood that Farkas had somehow _recognised_ the spell.

 _How?_ Farkas avoided everything to do with magic!

"Stay down," Lydia grated between her teeth, stepping purposefully between me and the mer on the road, her sword raised and ready. The spell that had coalesced over us a moment ago clung to her like her own personal, colourful cloud.

"They won't touch her," Farkas growled lazily; a promise to Lydia, and a warning to our pursuers, for there was no reason to pretend that we did not exist any longer. "Not while I live and breathe," he muttered in an undertone.

"It will serve nobody's interests if you run," a high-born voice called toward us from the road. "Least of all your own. You might as well come out, Celeste Passero."

My heart leapt at their naming me, though I grimaced at the smugness to the Altmer's tone and lifted my bow, taking aim on the Thalmor who had cast the purple spell over us. I knew little of magic, but I had to assume it was a life-detection spell, for its purpose seemed to have been to reveal our position and nothing more.

Which alerted me to one, crucial thing that stayed my hand; they wanted me _alive._ That gave me some leverage. "Why are you pursuing me?" I called. At once, Farkas' hand was on my arm, trying to hold me back.

"We have a matter of importance to discuss with you," another of their party replied.

Farkas growled, but Lydia cut him off.

"Seek an audience in town, if you wish to speak to our Lady Dragonborn," Lydia spoke up, sonorous and reasonable, but her tone left little room for alternatives. "Leave us to our business for tonight."

The reply was three quiet, distinctively amused chuckles from the roadside.

"I don't like this," Farkas hissed, growing edgier by the moment. "Why haven't they attacked? They _reek_ of attack," he added in a low, snarling voice.

I glanced to him to see the purpleness of the spell fading from the edges of his form and the amber rising in his eyes, almost in its place. "Because they want to _talk_ ," I told him flatly, twisting my arm to indicate that I wished to be released. I lowered my bow and took a step sideways, to stand before Lydia.

Both Farkas and Lydia made urgent sounds, but I held my hand up behind me for them to cease. "Let me talk," I whispered, to myself, more than my companions.

The spell the Thalmor had cast was fading swiftly now, but I knew that there _was_ no point in running. Thalmor had all manner of spells in their arsenal, and if we ran, the next thing they fired upon us would not be so benign.

 _I am a servant of the Empire_ , I thought desperately, dispelling a tremor as tried to convince myself that I was up to the task of _talking_ my way through this. _We have a truce, however tenuous, with the Thalmor._ I glanced about, trying to catch a glimpse of the other two Altmer.

"What do you wish to speak of?" I asked as calmly as I could manage, holding my head high, despite it being unlikely that they could see such a detail.

I could still only see one figure on the road, and his face was still obscured by the shadow being cast by the hood of his robes of office. I had no idea if the other two were near him, or skulking through the forest to our position, though I consoled myself with the knowledge that, should they approach, Farkas would know about it first and react.

"Not what, but whom," he who replied bore no trace of their prior amusement; instead, only an unnerving superiority. "Delphine Comtois."

Well. I hadn't expected _that_. The only Delphine I knew was the woman who I had met in Riverwood; the same who had met _me_ when I had returned with the dragonstone to Farengar. What did _they_ want with _her_?

I bit my bottom lip as my fingers flexed around my bow. I longed to lift it again, just as a precaution, but dared not, for they would react at once, and they _would_ be faster than me, of that I was certain.

" _Who_?" Lydia mused quietly, stepping up beside me.

I hadn't thought of the woman since that chance encounter in Farengar's office. Despite the frustration I felt toward Delphine and the secrets she had withheld from me, Farengar's words during our audience drifted back to me.

 _She is being hunted, and I might be signing her death sentence if I told you, and mine if she found out I had._

"I've no idea," I murmured to Lydia, hoping that the Thalmor would hear me; hear my confusion. "I know nobody by that name," I called toward the road, just to be sure.

" _Must_ we stand _yards_ apart, yelling at one another like common fish mongers wives?" the third Thalmor, who had not yet spoken, made his voice heard. His tone oozed boredom.

The one who I had eyes on replied; his obscured head tilting curiously. "Do not play games with us, Celeste. We know that you have spoken with her," he waxed.

"It is possible that your sources are mistaken," I insisted.

"We would appreciate it if you answered our questions, none the less," one of the Thalmor replied.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as Farkas stepped into my peripheral; his weapons were sheathed, but a barely-audible, rumbling growl was issuing from his throat.

"Farkas," I whispered in warning. If he shifted now, they would capture him, study him, and then kill him.

The growling stopped, but his scowls didn't.

"We are getting nowhere," one of the mer on the road muttered, then called out imperiously. "You have until the count of three to cooperate, or you will be arrested for obstructing a Dominion investigation, and then we will _take_ our answers from you. Three," he intoned.

Again, Lydia cursed, grasping my arm and throwing me behind her. "Farkas!" she hissed urgently.

"Way ahead of you," Farkas growled, then cast Lydia a swift, golden glare. "Get her out of here," he ordered, then _barrelled_ toward the approaching Thalmor before either of us could react.

" _No_!" I insisted, knowing I was too late.

"Two," the Altmer counting seemed bored and sighed laboriously. The sound of booted feet crunching through leaf litter came to me and I glanced toward the road in desperation.

"Wait!" I called out swiftly, intent on somehow buying us more time. Another burst of purple swept toward us suddenly from one of the approaching shadows.

" _No_ ," Lydia clutched my arm, turned, and ran. "No time."

For a moment I was towed in her wake, and I screamed when I heard the unmistakable growling snarl of a werewolf attacking. The forest behind us was lit up at intervals and the sounds of exploding sparks and roaring fires followed us wherever we ran.

We weren't fast enough to outrun the purple haze, but little else could have slowed our pace. If anything, the purpleness made Lydia run faster. She was silent and focussed, zig-zagging at what felt like random around rocks and trees and shrubs.

"We have to go back!" I screeched at Lydia, half-sobbing in desperation. "They'll kill him!"

A bolt of lightning flew past my face and I screamed again, leaping to the right as the smell of singed hair flooded my nose.

Lydia turned, flinging me behind a boulder and drawing her sword in a single, fluid motion.

"Stay out of sight," she grated furiously; her eyes trained on the forest.

I had no time to reply; she roared and raced back in the direction we had come. I knew she was only bellowing to draw them away from me.

Shaking violently, I placed an arrow in my bow and pressed my back to the boulder she had brought me to. Another beastly scream punctuated the explosions and flashes of coloured light. Lydia's battle cry was discernible in the chaos.

I lifted my bow and tried to make sense of what I was seeing before me, but everything was moving too quickly in the darkness to risk firing on anything that moved.

But still I aimed so that I might be ready if an opportunity presented itself.

With my mind and eyes trained on the confusion of the battle before us, I didn't realise that I was not alone by the boulder until a sickly green spell washed over me.

I had time enough to gasp, but that was all, and then I was as stone. My mind raced and panicked and my eyes felt strained, glued open but unable to shift to see where the attack had come from.

The sound of approaching footfalls behind me and a low, satisfied chuckle sent a chill along my spine. I desperately tried to _make_ myself move; to make a sound, to scream; to _FUS_. Nothing I tried worked.

"Really, Celeste," the mer's voice dripped with complacency, and he was closer to me than I had expected him to be. "I'm disappointed in you."

A gloved hand with long fingers closed around my arm but my scream was trapped in my throat. I felt as though I was drowning on the last gasping breath I had managed to take.

"I would have expected as much from your _tedious_ sister, but from you?" he tutted. "Refusing to assist a Dominion inquiry? Abetting a criminal? Consorting with a _werewolf_? I thought you were a good girl. Even the _Empire_ would have your head for this."

Unable to speak, defend myself, or move a muscle, my panic surged as a piece of cloth was wrapped around my mouth. With a tug, the fabric was tightened, forcing my mouth to open despite the paralysis spell, and gagging me.

Again, the Thalmor who was taking great care to stay out of my line of sight, chuckled. "Of course, the fate that now awaits Skyrim's baby dragon is a tad more creative and appealing than a _barbaric_ beheading. You will _beg_ us to extract the whereabouts of Delphine Comtois from you."

Of all the reasons to be captured – for _that_ woman?! My eyes burned, watering from being paralysed open, while I longed to cry at the injustice, and the _horrible_ timing of their attack. What would happen to _Whiterun_?

"When the spell expires," the Thalmor explained, his hands falling to my arms as he dragged me backwards, "you will-"

 _Thump_.

The Altmer let out a startled, strangled, but somewhat muffled cry. With his support gone, I keened backward and crashed hard onto the ground, still as rigid as before. My back stung where it had impacted a sharper rock, but the paralysis spell kept my scream of pain lodged in my throat.

A snarling, tearing sound rent the air, punctuated a moment later by a wet gurgle. I wasn't sure if I wanted to see what was happening or not, but a twisted, nauseous kind of relief flooded me as I understood what the sound meant. All I could see was the stars glinting merrily through the gaps in the trees overhead.

And then the sight of those was blocked by the large, furred head of Farkas' beast; his amber eyes bright and narrowed and his maw dripping with warm blood.

If I could have laughed or cried, I would have probably been doing both. Farkas seemed confused by my lack of reaction and sniffed at me, smearing blood and drool on my cheek in the process. When I didn't react still, he made a snuffling, unmistakably worried sound. His lupine nose pushed against my shoulder; clawed hands grasped me and turned me onto my side. My hands and feet tingled as Farkas' tongue lapped against what must have been a wound from my fall.

"Easy now," Lydia's voice cut through the night; strained from exertion but still hard with warning. "Let me come to her."

Farkas' beast tightened his hold on me and he glanced up to her at once, baring his teeth. The underside of his jaw rippled as he growled.

The tingling in my hands and feet extended along my arms and legs; the spell was fading. _Hurry_ , I prayed, trying desperately to lift my arm to calm my shield-brother.

"I'm trying to _help_ you!" Lydia was calling in frustration over the top of Farkas' increasingly aggravated warning sounds.

With a clatter of wood against rock, my bow slipped from my fingers; I could finally _move_ again. I whipped my arm around and caught Farkas' furred shoulder before he could leap over me.

His bright, golden eyes were on me in an instant. I coughed as I tried to speak around the gag, and tasted blood as I furiously pulled it down.

"Celeste!" Lydia was calling out, then I heard a couple of dim, rattling _chinks_ on one of the nearby rocks over the sound of my coughing. "Give her those," she ordered.

I turned toward the sound and thought I could make out smooth glass reflecting the light of the moons filtering through the trees. _Potions._

Through a series of hand motions, for despite removing the gag I didn't seem to be able to form words around the pools of liquid in my throat, and helped undoubtedly by Farkas' senses picking up what I desired, it wasn't long before I was pouring the thick, vile healing potions down my throat, one after the other. Whatever damage had been done to me was gradually knit back together, piece by piece.

"Thank you," I panted to both of them, my eyes closed as I felt the wound on my back stretch and itch as new skin formed over the gash.

"Don't – don't try to speak," Lydia voiced from a distance away.

I turned so I might see her better, but Farkas' form blocked most of everything; his furred arms had effectively caged me. I understood that it was a protective gesture, and eased him back with a quiet, "Thank you, brother."

The endearing way he tilted his head before he leaned back actually made me smile, and I scanned the woods for Lydia. "Are you all right?" I called to her.

"Fine – all fine," she answered swiftly; a trace of a nervous laugh to her tone. "Very much fine here," she tried to sound unaffected.

I crossed my brows, but before I could reply, Farkas bluntly pushed his bloody nose to my ear.

Turning back to him and lifting my hand to his enlarged head, I gave him a small, apologetic smile. _Tame the wolf first_ , I thought.

"You saved me," I breathed, pressing my forehead to the dense, dark, coarse fur covering his chest, hoping that they _both_ realised that I was not only thanking Farkas, but his wolf. "But the danger has passed. I need the man again. Do you…want me to call him forward?" I asked him quietly.

"Celeste?" Lydia called out in concern. "That's…it's still Farkas with you, isn't it? You're…you sure you're okay?"

The uncertainty in her tone made my chest ache. This would take some explaining.

"He won't hurt me," I called, pushing back from Farkas and trying to rise. "Farkas is fine, too. He's changing back," I arched an eyebrow at him in challenge, "aren't you?"

The werewolf turned its head down, snorting a huff of frustrated air out of its large nostrils. The hair on its head began to lengthen, and I breathed easier, knowing that it would not be long now.

"Are they all gone?" I called to Lydia, turning my eyes from Farkas but placing my hand on his increasingly stubbly cheek, to remind him that he was not alone.

"That lot won't be bothering us, or whoever this _Delphine Comtois_ is again," she murmured. A crunch-crunch of leaves told me that she was now, finally approaching.

After a moment, she became visible through the scattered trees, and she hesitated the moment I laid eyes on her. Though it was difficult to see in the shadows, she seemed to be focussed on Farkas, not me.

Guilt swept through me; guilt that I hadn't warned her somehow about their inner beasts; that she'd found out by being faced with the hard reality. But surely she would not be angry, _surely_ she would keep their secret, particularly once she understood that Farkas and Vilkas' beasts had changed; that their purpose had evolved from hunter to protector. And she would _have_ to acknowledge that their instincts had been invaluable over the course of our journey.

Before Lydia came any closer, and before I had figured out what to say to her to make this right, Farkas broke through our silence with a distinctly human groan.

My hand fell from his face and I spun toward him in time to see him drop forward and crash onto his forearms; his forehead pressed to the frozen earth and his naked form shuddering.

"Who in Shor's name is Delphine Com-twa?" he grumbled, butchering her surname, as most Nords tended to do with Breton names at first.

"My question exactly," Lydia spoke up faintly as though in shock, shifting swiftly to my side. She fell to her knees; placed a steadying hand on my shoulder – for her benefit, more than mine, I felt – as her other glided over the remnants of cuts and grazes on my skin.

I shook my head thoughtfully, my mind raking over that strange, confusing half-conversation that I had spent with Delphine in Farengar's office.

"I really don't know," I admitted in a murmur.

* * *

 _A/n: In case you were wondering; yes, this story is ending up **far** longer than I intended it to be. Really hope it's not proving to be tedious; that some of you are still with me, and enjoying the ride._


	41. Marching to the Beat

_Chapter 41: Marching to the Beat_

Farkas brought two of the dead Thalmor to the riverbank, slung over his shoulders as though they were sacks of flour.

"Undress them," he ordered, depositing one with a dull _thump_ on the ground before me.

I tore my eyes off the mer and flashed Farkas an uncertain glance. "Why? You can't hope to pass _us_ off as Thalmor-"

"I don't," Farkas cut in, groaning as he leaned over to place the second of his burdens down before Lydia. He glared at the Thalmor as though he expected him to get up and attack at any moment, then gave the mer a small kick with the toe of his boot. "But if we dump the bodies in the river, and the armour and weapons into that giant's camp we passed. Might take longer for their people to figure out what happened here."

I saw Lydia shudder, and then nod. Wordlessly, she knelt by the Altmer and started stripping him of his robes.

Farkas turned away, returning to the site of our battle to retrieve the third Thalmor, I assumed.

Glancing down to the mer Farkas had dropped in front of me, a wave of nausea hit and my throat clenched, making it suddenly harder to breathe. Half of his face was gone. _Bitten off_ , I realised. Feeling dizzy, I knelt so I wouldn't fall down, and mechanically, trying to avoid thinking about what I was doing and what Farkas had done (to protect _us_ ), tugged the Thalmor's gloves off his hands and laid them together on the grass.

 _Farkas' plan is sound,_ I assured myself, busying over the details so I wouldn't have to think about anything else. _By the time their absence is noticed, the crabs and slaughterfish will have disposed of the bodies. And if their armour is located, it may be assumed that they had an unlucky encounter with the camp's inhabitants._

I nodded in confirmation as I heaved the Thalmor onto his side to draw one arm out of a thick, heavy sleeve.

My gaze was unwittingly locked onto the only remaining, glazed-over eye of the dead Altmer, but I didn't realise I was staring at it until the smell of his blood flooded me when I lay him back down. I covered my mouth to cough, and searched for something else to distract me.

 _Delphine._ Yes, a worthy distraction. Farengar had _meant_ it when he'd told me she was being hunted. What had she done? All I knew was that she was an innkeeper in Riverwood, and seemed interested in the dragonstone. But even so, when I had seen her, it had sounded as though she was a messenger for someone above her with a greater interest in it. Was she a thief? A mercenary, a grave robber? Had she stolen something that belonged to the Aldmeri Dominion?

 _You have managed to leave a trail of dead bodies behind you since you left Solitude._

The fresh, mocking sentence overtook my musings over a woman I knew little enough about. I sat back, taking a gasping breath, glancing away from the dead mer in an attempt to relocate some measure of calm. I searched the churning river beside us, and then the skies. _Skyrim is at war_ , I found myself pleading to the heavens.

 _So it's kill before you're killed? Strange path for a Bard to tread,_ the stars twinkled accusingly.

"Lydia?" I spoke up swiftly, averting my eyes and clearing my throat.

She glanced over to me; her eyes wary, then at once looked back down to her task, tugging off the Thalmor's boots swiftly. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but I thought she looked paler than usual. "Yes?" she answered, her tone flat, quiet, and disappointed.

Her uncertainty made her appear younger, and I shoved aside my internal panic as I felt a wash of sympathy for her, and shame in my own part in keeping her in the dark about the twins. It had not been my place to enlighten her, but finding out that your travelling companion was a werewolf, and given my reaction, that everybody must have known it already, had to be jarring.

I shifted, kneeling beside her and placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" I tried to make eye contact with her. "I mean," I rolled my eyes at my own question, then hesitated, uncertain of what to ask or say to ease her mind. "I don't know what I mean," I admitted glumly.

Lydia's reply was a slow nod, as though I had managed to come up with something profound and she was considering my words. Her hands continued moving, undertaking their grizzly task seemingly of their own accord.

Rather than make her talk if she preferred not to, I stayed with her and helped her to undress the dead Thalmor she was working on. After a minute or two, when we were done, she sat back. She glanced over the long, pale body laid out before us, then stood, and still without a word, forcibly kicked him into the water.

I said nothing about her silent outburst, and together we watched the figure bob along the river. After a few heartbeats, it was caught by an undercurrent, and tugged swiftly out of sight.

"Vilkas is the same," Lydia stated finally; her voice now all too steady.

I glanced to her, but her eyes were still on the surging waters. "Yes," I confirmed at a whisper.

"And you have known about them for some time?" Lydia turned away, making for the Thalmor that I had half undressed.

I trailed behind her, repeating, "Yes."

"Does Hadvar know?"

"No."

"And you...are you one of –?"

" _No_ ," I cut in quickly, flushing as I recalled how close I had come. I could vividly recall the smell of Aela's blood as I had held it in the underforge, before Vilkas had burst in and saved me, though it seemed as though eons had passed since that fearful, fateful night.

Dropping down beside our next task, Lydia lifted the mer up so I could disrobe him more easily.

"You're not worried they'll attack, or try to turn you into one of them?" she questioned, trying to sound nonchalant, but the trembling edge to her voice gave her away. She seemed more frustrated than scared, but perhaps her tone was another kind of mask, too.

I shook my head, groaning in exertion as I tugged the black leather off the mer and piled it with the rest of his armour.

"But they're –" she huffed a laugh, a sound of exasperation more than anything else. " _Werewolves_ , Celeste," she hissed. "They could turn around and eat any of us at any moment-"

"They won't hurt us," I shot her a warning look. My eyes flickered to the road, wondering where Farkas was. As soon as I had wondered it, I knew. He was there. He was listening. He was keeping out of our conversation. With a pang, I realised that he was just as uncertain as Lydia was; of what her reaction would be, and what was worse; he could _sense_ all that she was feeling, right now.

"You _cannot_ know that-" Lydia continued.

"But I _do_ ," I insisted, determined to make her understand. "It's something to do with me being dragonborn. Kodlak's diary explains it–"

" _Kodlak Whitemane_ was a-?"

" _Yes_. Keep your voice down," I crossed my brows at her, standing to help her lift the disrobed Thalmor into the water.

"By the _Gods_ ," Lydia glanced around fearfully, even as we threw the mer into the river. "He can _hear_ us can't he? They can – that's why they always knew who and what was approaching," she pushed the heel of her palm into her forehead, her expression pained.

"Yes. The beast blood heightens some of their senses. It was useful, wasn't it?" I rallied my training so that I could speak with conviction, and imagined that I was performing. She needed some facts, and some perspective, like the audience of a play, who needed a moment of exposition to be brought up to speed. "Had it not been for Vilkas and Farkas, you and I would be dead. _Several_ times over," I added pointedly. I turned away from the form of the dead mer drifting down river and put my hands on my hips, trying to catch a glimpse of Farkas. He was there, somewhere. "I know that this must be a horrible shock, but try to imagine how Farkas is feeling?"

Lydia cast me a rueful look.

"No, really, _think_ about it," I pressed her. "He is still Farkas. Still the man you know. How would you feel, having to hide a part of yourself every day, wondering if your friends would lead the angry pitchfork-wielding mob to run you out of town if they found out your secret? It must be exhausting," I murmured, searching the road again. "Farkas, are you there?" I called out, deciding to go to him. I could suppose, from Lydia's lack of hysteria, that this revelation would be safe with her, even if it changed her easy familiarity with the brothers for a time.

Lydia was striding beside me at once, though her lips pursed. "I cannot _believe_ that you kept _this_ from me," she muttered with an angry, sideways glance.

"It was not my secret to tell," I replied reasonably. "Farkas?" I called again.

"'m here," he murmured, stepping out from behind a tree with the third Thalmor draped over both of his shoulders.

I startled at his proximity, but Lydia yelped in surprise.

The sad look on Farkas' face tore my heart in two, and I recovered swiftly, rushing to his side. "Don't sneak up on us like that," I tried to laugh. "Here. Let me help you."

"s'all right," he shrugged, turning and trudging toward the river. "I can do it," he added quietly, dropping to his knees and leaning the mer down before him. His back was to us, but it was clear from his movements that he was stripping the Thalmor of his armour.

I glanced to Lydia, giving her a pointed nod in Farkas' direction.

The pleading look she gave me made me narrow my eyes at her, and after a moment she sighed, then glanced to the sky before going to him.

"Let me help," she muttered. "It's easier, with two."

Farkas stilled as Lydia knelt opposite him. He sat back and watched her, but she kept her eyes lowered and on the dead mer between them. Doubtless Farkas was sensing and wondering over whatever she was feeling, whether she understood he was or not.

After the boots and gloves had been removed, Lydia lifted the mer up, and then had to make eye contact with Farkas.

"Could you?" she shuffled the mer's weight under her arms.

Farkas nodded and got to work. After they'd stripped the Thalmor down to his loincloth, Farkas rose and unceremoniously tossed him into the river, to join his comrades.

I hung back, observing Lydia and Farkas as they stood on the riverbank together, silently watching the dead mer drift further and further away from us.

When he was out of sight, Lydia turned and stooped, gathering Thalmor robes in her arms. "Giant camp next, yes?" she cleared her throat.

"Aye," Farkas agreed gruffly.

I wanted to shake them both.

 _You can't force them to talk it out and hug,_ I told myself, clamping down on my frustration lest it worry Farkas even more. _Give them time._

In complete silence, we lugged the Thalmor armour to the giant's camp. It was a simple task to avoid the two inhabitants; both seemed occupied with a cow. Dumping our burdens next to their nearest treasure hoard, we darted away before they could turn and figure out what had caused all the dull clanks and crashes in their territory.

We fled to our horses, and it was only when we reached them that Lydia spoke. I was relieved, for I knew that Farkas, being reticent on a good day, would not.

"I won't tell anyone," she said in a quiet voice to my shield-brother, grasping her horse's reins in her fist and swinging up onto the saddle.

Farkas glanced up to her, frowning, but still said nothing.

Lydia nodded to him, as though confirming what she had said, then added a little hopelessly, "I don't understand why, but I have seen with my own eyes that you... _it_ , whatever, strives to protect Celeste. So I cannot..." she hesitated, huffing a helpless laugh. "I will learn not to fear you, and I will not expose you."

"Uh, thanks," Farkas mumbled. There was a pause where I thought that he might say something more, but the silence went on for too long.

During it, I wondered how this exchange might have gone had Vilkas been with us. I knew first hand that Vilkas was no stranger to words, or uncomfortable conversations.

Farkas cleared his throat and turned his mount around. "We should reach Whiterun by dawn," was all he eventually said.

I murmured my relief to hear it, and fell into line as we directed our horses back onto the road.

"As long as there are no more surprises," I heard Lydia grumble.

–

There weren't. Even so; once we reached the plains surrounding Whiterun, and the shadowy form of Dragonsreach swam into view in the distance, my nerves started building.

I hummed quietly to myself – pointless little tunes the moment they came to mind – and the buzz of music did much to distract me from what was laid out before us, and what had to be done when we reached it.

But there was no way to entirely forget about the news that I had to bring Jarl Balgruuf. When the sun rose and the glory of the new day gently blushed the tundra, I felt a sick sense of dread as the memory of Ulfric's message pressed upon me. I doubted I would be able to appreciate a sunrise until the battle with the Stormcloaks was won.

I called ahead to Farkas, asking if we could ride a little faster.

 _How many more dawns will Whiterun see before the Stormcloaks attack?_

–

We reached Whiterun soon after sun up, as Farkas had anticipated.

My shield-brother hung back at the stables, mumbling that he would see that the horses were looked after and bring our packs up for us, if we wanted to go on ahead.

He was anxious and withdrawn, perhaps more about Lydia's penetrating silence than anything else, but it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to think beyond Whiterun and war to be clever about convincing him to join us. I would not leave him behind to carry our burdens, and Lydia was...well, she seemed serene, though more quiet than usual. She could cope with his presence.

Part of me knew her attitude must have been a front to cover her fear, but there was no denying that Lydia had taken the news of Farkas and Vilkas being werewolves better than Farkas was dealing with Lydia's enlightenment.

Buzzing with anticipation over what I soon must announce to the Jarl, I drew Farkas into a swift hug. "Come with us, brother," I whispered as the large man recovered from the suddenness of my actions. I squeezed my arms tighter around his mid-section as his hands gingerly fell to my shoulders.

"To Dragonsreach?" he asked in that low, seemingly bored tone of his.

I nodded, arching back as I made myself smile. "I can't do this without you."

Farkas' brows furrowed. "What can _I_..."

"I mean," I rolled my eyes at myself as I recalled how literally Farkas took everything. I laughed a little, adding, "I don't _want_ to do this without you."

"The horses will be taken care of by the stablehands," Lydia supported with a groan as she dragged her pack off the back of her saddle and settled it on her shoulders. "You should report to Dragonsreach with us," she added, looking up to the great building looming over Whiterun as she said it.

I glanced at it for myself; the morning sun was casting an attractive golden hue over the wooden beams, lighting it up like a beacon. _If Ulfric has his way, Dragonsreach will be flying the Bear of Eastmarch soon._

Releasing Farkas, I hastened to my horse and began to untie my pack. "Besides, you're not an errand-boy," I murmured as my eyes fell to Jarl Balgruuf's axe, strapped to the side of the saddle. Ulfric's taunt about being an errand girl poked at my twisting stomach, making it more difficult to assuage my nerves.

"All right," Farkas sighed uncertainly.

Once we were ready, I grasped the axe in both hands and made directly for the gates. Lydia and Farkas were either side of me and a tense silence settled between us.

As we strode with obvious purpose closer to the main gate, we were met by hails from many Whiterun guards, ranging from respectful hullos and head nods, to one embarrassingly reverent "Our Lady has returned!" from who I thought _might_ have been Bryor Sorinsen, who I had not laid eyes on since we had fought together at the Western Watchtower.

I hesitated to see if it was him, and to say hello properly, but my companions sweeping by me and their unfaltering pace had me catching them up before I could spare the guard a second glance.

The main gates were opened without hesitation, and locked again behind us. As I paused to catch my breath I wondered suddenly why there had been so many guards on duty outside of the city?

But as I stopped on the bridge in the entry, I looked around the place I had come to think of as home, and breathed a sigh of relief. "He _knows_ ," I murmured.

"It would appear so," Lydia replied quietly.

During our absence, Whiterun had undergone some changes. Changes that were, undoubtedly, in anticipation of Ulfric Stormcloak's refusal to back down. Great long stakes, sharpened at the tip, had been driven into the ground around the inner wall, as far as I could see in both directions. Within the barrier, wooden scaffolding had been erected, slung with quivers and bows, and bolts and crossbows at intervals. Many of the houses had been barricaded with planks of wood nailed across the windows in effort to shield the glass.

"The Jarl knew war would always come to Whiterun," Farkas mumbled.

Nodding, I pressed on. All of Skyrim knew of Jarl Balgruuf's logical, loyal, no-nonsense ways, but I had not seen such strong indicators of his nature, or his determination to protect his people. War was clearly coming to Whiterun – and the city wasn't in a panic about it.

A flood of warm devotion to the Hold he had made me Thane of, and to my Jarl himself, swept through me, banishing the anxiety I had felt in returning home with the bad news. I knew, then, that I had made the right choice to return, even if I had first proposed doing so as a means to ensure Vilkas would accompany Hadvar to Solitude.

We passed through the marketplace, which seemed to be operating as usual despite the added fortifications here and there. As we turned and ascended the stairs before the Gildergreen, I realised with some alarm that I had been nervous because I assumed Jarl Balgruuf would blame me for the impending attack. These preparations in our absence told me otherwise; the Jarl had _known_ that it would come to this. My going to Windhelm had been a last ditch effort to avoid it, but I was grateful to learn that he had not relied on the outcome.

Any guilt still dragging me down had lifted by the time we entered Dragonsreach. The throne room was empty, as I had expected to find it given the early hour, but I could hear strains of conversation coming from upstairs. We ascended to the war room, to find Jarl Balgruuf, Irileth, Hrongar, Proventus and Commander Caius standing around a large map on the main table.

The noise our boots made on the stairs had brought pause to their talk, but I caught the Jarl's eye as I turned on the landing to face the assembly. The moment before I lowered my gaze and dipped to one knee, holding his axe before me, his icy-blue eyes shone with a relieved pride that brought a flush to my cheeks. In the corners of my vision, both Lydia and Farkas ducked down as well, falling a step behind me.

"Celeste – you are returned," he called warmly. The shuffling sound of booted feet treading the floor boards came to me.

"Yes, my Jarl," I stood, having been given leave to do so when he said my name. I met his eyes again, faltering as he stopped before me; his housecarls flanking him. While Irileth and Hrongar's expressions were, as usual, unimpressed verging on hostile, the Jarl's welcoming smile cut through their coldness. I had not expected him to be so accommodating upon my return, given the task that was ahead of us.

"Your greatness prevails. I am pleased to see that your companions kept you safe," he rumbled, reaching out with open arms. "Though you appear to be missing two of your entourage," he frowned a little. "They are accounted for?"

I placed the axe in his outstretched hands, as I assumed he wanted by his gesture, but he made a tutting sound and passed the axe to his brother idly, then turned back to me, taking both of my hands in his instead.

They were very warm, and his fingers squeezed mine gently as he continued. "Where are Vilkas, and your Hadvar?"

I faltered again before I could find words to reply with. "They are...on their way to Solitude," I managed, casting a hasty glance to Hrongar, who was holding the returned axe menacingly before him. Remembering Hadvar's words before they had departed, the determination to carry out my duty enabled me to add, "Quaestor Reidarsson is instructing General Tullius to put the legions he will commit to your command on standby in Rorikstead, should you wish to accept the alliance with the Empire."

"Is he now?" the Jarl raised an eyebrow, but seemed no less affable than before. "The prospect of war has given many a man and woman the courage to take liberties, it seems."

I told myself to be heartened by his manner, rather than unnerved, and had the notion that his words were meant in _jest_ , for otherwise why would he still be smiling?

"Aye my Jarl," I lowered my eyes, to be sure. "Though only out of hope to keep our people safe. I take full responsibility if you believe the action to be presumptuous. The Empire will remain in Rorikstead, awaiting your orders, and you may leave them there to wait, if you do not want them."

"Ah hah," the Jarl let go of my hands and turned to his steward. "Proventus, write a letter to Rorik and explain why the Imperial Legion is about to descend on his community. I would not want him to think he is under attack."

"Very good," Proventus nodded cordially and made to leave.

"Rorik was a soldier with the Legion during his time," Irileth spoke up. "He wouldn't obstruct the Empire from setting up camp within his borders. In fact, he'd likely welcome it, for the business it will bring his people."

"Perhaps," Balgruuf murmured. "But better to forewarn him, while we are still able to do so. Proventus," he called to the steward as he reached the landing. "You might as well write to General Tullius, while you have your quills inked."

This the Jarl said with a little more regret to his tone, and I glanced to Proventus curiously.

After a pause, the steward hazarded a question; "And, what would you have me write, my Jarl?"

Balgruuf glanced down, placing his hands on his hips. He sighed, shaking his head. "Celeste," he murmured.

I met his gaze. The weary, icy depths were set on me, inspecting me.

"Y-yes?" I blinked.

"You are for the Imperials, are you not?" he asked.

Standing straighter, I did not hesitate. "I am for Whiterun."

A smirk lifted his expression. "Clever girl. But your father, he was a man of the Empire," he stated, narrowing his eyes speculatively. "If you will not advise me yourself, then pray; recite me some of Samuel's wisdom."

What exactly was the Jarl considering that he needed advice on, I had to wonder? He had clearly been preparing the city for battle, and had not seemed surprised by either the return of his axe, or the news of the legions who would soon be on standby in his Hold. _Was_ he questioning whether or not he should accept them?

It would only be bad for Whiterun, if he refused the alliance. But if it was my father's advice that Jarl Balgruuf wanted, I would give it. Father would not have wanted anybody to go to war, but if it had been inevitable, protecting his people and that which he believed in would have been key.

I made myself think about father; made myself remember his kind, steady, perhaps slightly too-indulgent nature. A memory came upon me as I centred my thoughts on him; one relevant to decisions and paths set before oneself, and my throat grew thick as I withdrew from it and opened my eyes; "He used to say, to follow my heart."

The Jarl said nothing. I supposed he was waiting for me to elaborate. I felt the others in the room also looking at me, with stares ranging from curious to judgemental, but did not pay them any mind. For once I did not feel exposed under the scrutiny of the Jarl's housecarls; as though the impression of my father somehow shielded me from them.

I stood taller, clearing my throat. "If I examined my heart, he said, I could find any answer, to any decision that I faced," my eyes misted as I recalled his voice, the sparkle in his deep blue eyes, like the ocean under a clear, midday sky. My mind painted such a vivid picture of him that I found it impossible to believe that he was truly gone.

Taking a steadying breath, I continued. "And, that most importantly, if I would listen, my heart would provide me answers that I could live with, for the rest of my days."

The Jarl hesitated before responding. "And that is what rules your actions, Celeste?" he asked quietly. "Your heart?"

I smiled unwittingly; his question reminding me of Hadvar's staunch honour when we had been faced with _our_ hearts' desires. "Sometimes," I conceded, with a wry tilt to my head.

The Jarl seemed amused by my reply, which did much to banish the remaining tension within the room. "My sentimental old friend," he shook his head thoughtfully. "If you expose your heart, there is nothing to stop your enemy from cutting it out of your chest," he murmured.

"Except for those surrounding you, who have sworn to protect you," I countered quietly.

The Jarl shot me another look; this one lasting longer than his previous looks, and more searching. Between us hung the unspoken; that we would stand with him, when he made his decision, regardless of how he proceeded.

Finally, he grimaced as he nodded. "All right," he turned toward Proventus, calling out, "Tell the General that we will ally with the Legion. Tell him that I welcome his soldiers who he sends to fight for us," he glanced back to me. "I believe my _heart_ can live with choosing their side, given the price if I don't. Tell me, Celeste," he continued on, his tone modulating to betray his hesitance as he held his arm out for me, so I might approach. "What did Ulfric say to you, when you presented him my offer? Did you meet with your sister?"

Proventus left while Jarl Balgruuf took me under his wing, literally, and guided me to the war room table. I could hear Lydia and Farkas behind us, ghosting my every move, and could all but feel the bewilderment emanating from them.

I had no answers for them, with regards to the Jarl's warmth. Why was Jarl Balgruuf suddenly so accommodating toward me, treating me with such an easy, equal manner? With the exception of the time he had grounded me, he had always been kind, but this? This change, this mood, whatever it was, while a welcome surprise, was serving to make me a little uncertain.

Recalling suddenly that the Jarl had asked me a direct question, I accepted the seat he showed me to and thanked him hastily. Placing my hands on the table; staring down at the small paleness, covered in dirt and scratches and blood, I took another deep, steadying breath as I rallied my courage. Jarl Balgruuf never played games with people.

 _Perhaps you have done it,_ I told myself. _Perhaps you have proven your loyalty to him and the Hold, by going to Windhelm. Perhaps this is what it is, truly, to be a proper Thane to a Jarl; this freely offered kinship and trust._

Perhaps. Father had never spoken of it, but then, I had never needed to ask him. As directly as I could, I outlined the relevant details of the meeting with Stormcloak. None present needed to know about Giselle and Ulfric's entanglement, or the fights that we had fallen into to and from Windhelm, so I did not bother entering into those parts.

The Jarl's face darkened when I relayed Ulfric's words about the sun rising; the only moment since I had ascended the stairs that he seemed truly vexed. But by the time I finished my report, the darkness was gone, to be replaced with a flat sort of acceptance.

"He will not collect my people or my city in his personal quest for glory," he resolved, then shook his head regretfully. "But he will take many a worthy son and daughter of Skyrim down with him, I fear."

"His people are not children. They follow him of their own choosing," Irileth interjected, her voice unyielding. "He cannot bend Skyrim to his will."

"And yet, still he fights," the Jarl cast her a poignant look.

"Just let him _try_ and take Whiterun as his own," the Dunmer bit out through her teeth. " _We_ stand with you, not because you have tricked or threatened us, but because you have given your all to do what's best for each and every one of us, time and time again. He might have numbers greater than ours, but our people have the greater strength, in you," her eyes flashed with determined fury; but she wasn't done.

"If we are to march to the beat of our hearts," she cast me a sharp look, "then know that they beat with yours, and as one. Stormcloak will not find Whiterun a twig to bend and snap under the pressure of his thumb, but a mighty tree, with roots dug deeper than he can hope to penetrate. He _will not_ break us."

Silence met her earnest words, but eventually the Jarl clapped his hand to her shoulder. "Indeed, he will not. Caius," he nodded to the Commander, "gather your officers; they have been preparing the city well enough, but now that Celeste has returned, we must prepare them for what is to come. I will join you in the barracks, in a moment, after I have signed the letters Proventus is preparing."

Everyone started moving all at once. I stood, my eyes flitting around the war room as the Commander made his exit and the Jarl strode for the throne room with Hrongar and Irileth on his heels.

"What am I to do now, my Jarl?" I couldn't help but call out. A part of me hoped that he would order me to bed; I had not slept for some time now.

The Jarl hesitated on the landing. "Evacuate those who cannot fight, and inspire those who can to take up arms. In other words, Celeste," he tilted his head a little as he smirked. "Be yourself."

He descended then with a rushed clatter of heavy boots, and, taken aback by the vagueness of his orders, and the freedom they gave me, I stood at the table for a moment longer, wondering at this...lightness, this vitality in him. He had visibly suffered a moment of disappointment when I had told him of Ulfric's determination to attack him, but the speed at which he had recovered, and the entire Hold's readiness for war, made me wonder if the Jarl was...

Was he _excited_ by the prospect of a battle?

 _Blasted Nords,_ I unwittingly thought, then shook my exasperation away as I left the table. He had not dismissed me, but the Jarl had not asked me to accompany him, either. Until he summoned me, it seemed that I could prepare as I saw fit.

 _How does anyone prepare for war,_ I wondered wearily? I was not a soldier, or any sort of legitimate fighter, even as a Companion. Had I not been Thane of Whiterun and known in my heart that leaving Whiterun was out of the question, I might have been packing to evacuate right now.

I was absorbed by these thoughts when Lydia spoke up as we walked out of Dragonsreach.

"Ever your father's daughter," she sighed laboriously. I glanced to her, wondering what she meant by that _this_ time, in time to see her rest her hand on Farkas' arm. "Farkas, wait."

My shield-brother _did_ startle at her touch, but Lydia spoke up before he could question her, and swiftly, as though he had not reacted.

"Samuel was always right about these things," she told him. "And in my heart, I cannot fear you. Thank you, for all that you did. And for trusting me enough that you could do what needed to be done," she added quietly.

" _Lydia_ ," I warned; though we were some distance from the nearest Dragonsreach guards, I didn't want her to unwittingly rouse anybody's interest in the finer, more delicate details of our expedition.

Farkas gave her a crooked, uncertain smirk. "Any time," he drawled. And then, there it was in his eyes; hope.

Biting my tongue to keep my emotions from flooding out of me, I turned away from them and resumed my path down the concourse. I felt brighter; glowing with gratitude toward Lydia for overcoming that which had silenced her earlier – fear, prejudice, superstition, whatever it was – bolstered by my pride in Jarl Balgruuf – _my Jarl_ , who had risen beyond his determination against committing his people to war, to do what needed to be done to ensure we could protect everything we held dear.

My feelings overwhelmed me, swelling in my chest and bringing tears to my eyes, and for the first time since I had begun this terrible, wonderful, astounding journey, I allowed myself a moment to cry. They were tears of relief, of joy, of fatigue, and of grief, as my father's words about listening to my heart drifted through my mind on the cool morning breeze.

Of course, the moment I began crying I felt Farkas' hand fall gently to my arm, turning me back, and once Lydia realised _why_ he had turned me, she ducked down and began asking questions. I laughed them both off through my tears, unable to explain as I detangled myself and continued descending the Dragonsreach stairs, to the utter perplexity of my companions.

I knew from his stories that Whiterun had been a place that my father had liked, and through Lydia and the Jarl's reflections, I could assume that he had striven to protect and serve here as fiercely as he had in Haafingar.

I found that I understood his devotion entirely. Whiterun – both the place, and the people – had in a very short space of time, become home. It was, I was no longer afraid to genuinely admit, where my heart wanted me to be.

–

In the days that followed, time passed at an alarmingly fast pace. There was much to organise within Jorrvaskr, for the building had to be fortified, and the people of Whiterun needed our assistance.

While the Companions had always managed to keep themselves somewhat separated from the common folk in the past, I had insisted that if we were to have a home to return to once this battle had ended, we would need to stand and fight _with_ the people, and defend it together.

If we were to fight as one with Whiterun, it meant we were to stand alongside the Empire. Regrettably, my words brought forth some minor dissent, though I was not overly alarmed by it.

Vignar Grey-Mane immediately, staunchly refused to have any part in a war effort that would give the Empire a greater hold over Whiterun, and then turned his spite on me. "Since you walked through these doors," he pointed accusingly toward them, "you have wrought nothing but death and destruction on us," he grated. "Were Kodlak alive, he would regret-"

"You don't speak for Kodlak," Aela snapped sharply. " _Never_ presume to speak for Kodlak."

" _I_ am not the one making presumptions," Vignar fired back, rising to his feet as his narrowed gaze drifted back to me. "As a shield-sister, you have ruined the Companions," he declared savagely. "And as Dragonborn, you have _betrayed_ Skyrim," he added sharply, turning and making for the doors.

Brill shadowed him, his eyes downcast. The doors clicked closed behind them, and for a time, nobody said anything.

I was surprised by how little his words made me feel. He had spoken them bitterly, intending to wound and shame me, but in the calm after his storm had swept from the building, I felt nothing for him or what he had said. Had any other member of the Companions spoken as he had, I might have done.

But Vignar had been a consistently disagreeable force within Jorrvaskr, from the very first moment I had entered its halls. If I felt anything, it was relief that he had gone.

I could not say the same about Eorlund's departure. When the sound of steel hitting steel ceased to toll from the Skyforge the following day, I felt sick with self-reproach.

Farkas had felt it, and had consoled me with a rumour he had heard about the town; that the entire Grey-Mane family had evacuated Whiterun the night before. He had added that Eorlund had never borne me any ill-will, and while I was grateful for his direct honesty, it took some time to banish the feeling that perhaps my coming to the Companions _had_ destroyed them.

Eorlund had merely left to see to the needs of his family, I told myself over and over again. Perhaps, when Whiterun was made safe again, he would return to the Skyforge and all would be as it was?

 _Nothing will be the same after this battle,_ I told myself. _Choosing a side divides us, just like it divided Hadvar and Ralof. And if Whiterun is taken by the Stormcloaks, it will be you who is made to leave next._

But despite my inner turmoil, there was a great threat to prepare for, so I had to put anything unrelated to the Stormcloak attack aside. Outside of Jorrvaskr, the township was abuzz. The Battle-Born family coordinated much of the residential fortifications, as the Guard was committed to the walls and approach. Many citizens refused to abandon their homes. While the Jarl had seemed quietly pleased and vocally honoured that so many of his people wanted to stand up with his Guard and the Legion, he made it known that if they insisted on remaining, the city barracks was to be their shelter, when the fighting commenced. There was no use in merchants and farmers throwing themselves in the path of trained Stormcloaks, and they could be of great use by tending to any injured brought in, sharpening weapons and mending armour, mixing potions, and ensuring that every man and woman had food in their bellies.

He was unyielding, however, when it came to the topic of children remaining in Whiterun. He sent his own daughter and sons away with Proventus as escort on the day after I returned, to where even _I_ wasn't certain. He had issued an order that all citizens who were not of age were to be sent out of the city within a three-day, or they would be sent to the orphanage in Riften until the battle had been won.

To comply with the Jarl's decree, and avoid having to send Lucia so far as _Riften_ , I had proposed Lucia go to Riverwood, to stay with Alvor and Sigrid. As much as Lucia liked the Ebonhands, the little girl had _begged_ Lydia to let her remain; that she would stay out of everybody's way, and could help by running messages and cooking dinners, but she was simply too young. Standing with us in Whiterun was out of the question.

She left Whiterun in fits of tears with Jenassa, a mercenary that Lydia paid to escort the girl to Riverwood. Once the tiny girl had been taken and the gates locked behind her, Lydia had grit her teeth and marched away with tears welling in her eyes.

"Try to think about how much fun she will have, running around that _beautiful_ valley with Dorthe?" I offered, uncertain of the best course or words to ease her mind. "Alvor might even teach her how to smith?"

Lydia nodded swatting at her eyes in frustration. "Yes. So much fun, that she will not wish to come home," she choked out.

"Oh, _Lydia_ ," I hushed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as we walked.

"I'm sorry. I had no idea that I would do _this_ when she left," she indicated _herself_ with some exasperation. "What has _happened_ to me?" she laughed through her tears.

I squeezed her close and continued leading her back toward Jorrvaskr, for I had been working to fortify the wall beside the training yard before the time of Lucia's departure had arrived. Smiling at my ordinarily steady housecarl's emotional outburst, I replied in a consoling tone, "You have found someone worth fighting for, and it is...terrifying."

Lydia sniffed and wiped her eyes again as we circled the Gildergreen. A battalion of guards wearing the Whiterun yellow passed us, each bearing large, sharpened logs, bound for the front gate, I supposed. The majority of the Guard's defensive efforts were being focussed there.

"It is, isn't it?" Lydia responded belatedly in a quiet, thoughtful voice. When I glanced to her, her gaze was still fixed on the retreating form of the guards. "Terrifying," she shuddered, turning away. "I will do anything to keep that little girl safe," she mused. "Lucia _must_ go where it is safe," she added quietly, to herself.

I knew how she felt, though the protective force driving my actions was borne of a different place. The flames lit by one's destiny or the want of fame and wealth paled to insubstantiality when brought beside the fierce, blazing loyalty felt toward a loved one.

It was a power that gave strength and endurance, prompting all who privately felt it to continue with the preparations even as it threatened to shake or paralyse us. And so, those remaining in Whiterun continued to make it ready for the impending Stormcloak attack, knowing and accepting that soon we would fight and possibly die to protect those that we believed in.

–

"Celeste," Lydia's voice drifted to me. A hand was on my arm, shaking it gently. "Celeste, wake up," her call was clearer this time.

I opened my eyes, blinking at my housecarl as my vision cleared. It was still night, still dark, but Lydia was beside me wearing her armour and holding a candle in a slim, elegant, silver candelabra. A knot of worry tugged at her brows, and she was frowning.

"What is it?" I gasped, sitting up hastily and then steadying myself as my head swam.

Lydia put the candelabra on the side table and sat on the edge of my bed. "The Jarl has summoned you."

"What?" I croaked, glancing over my shoulder to the enormous window behind my bed. "It's the middle of the night."

"Something's happening," Lydia continued. She stood again, as though she was finding it difficult to sit still, and her eyes fell to the window, and beyond. Her eyes narrowed in what seemed to be an attempt to see something that was there but obscured.

There was only one matter that would cause the Jarl to summon me in the dead of night, I realised. "Stormcloaks?" I asked Lydia quietly.

Lydia shrugged. "They didn't say. The messenger woke me, and said that all of the Jarl's advisors were to assemble on the Great Porch," she tore her eyes from the window, sighing as she looked down to me. "Let's get you into your Thane armour, just in case. I fear you are right; such a summons, at this hour, can only mean that Stormcloaks have been sighted."

 _No more dawns_ , I realised with a thud to my chest _._ "All right," I swung my legs around and rose, glancing uncertainly at the dummy I kept my armour on. "But really Lydia – you think I should wear _that_ into _actual_ _battle_?" I cast her an unimpressed look.

Lydia tilted her head curiously at me as she moved to the armour for herself and lifted the cuirass, inspecting it. "Would you rather not be recognised? I suppose you are right," she frowned, her shoulders sinking as she lowered the armour. "But your Companion armour is just as conspicuous, and you will have far less room to move in it-"

"No, that's not it at all," I stopped her, joining her and jabbing at the silvery chains that held the chestpiece together down its sides. They made a tinkling sound as they brushed against one another. "This isn't armour, Lydia. It's jewellery."

Lydia huffed a laugh, pushing the chestpiece to me so I would have to take it. "Is _that_ why you don't wear it? You think others will make _fun_ of you? _Really_ , Celeste," she laughed again as she flung open my cupboard and busied herself extracting clothing for me to wear under my armour.

I clutched the leather to me automatically, confused by her ire. "I don't wear it into battle because it's...not made for battle!" I defended. "Look at it – it's _clearly_ ceremonial. It's meant to be worn with a dress to fancy dinners and parties-"

" _Ceremonial_? Who told you that?" Lydia poked her head around the wardrobe, wrinkling her nose at me. "Why would they have – no, wait a moment," she held up her hand, closing her eyes as though to gather her wits.

I frowned as I waited for her to elaborate as a flush of embarrassment crept its way slowly under my skin, toward my cheeks. Had I been wrong about my Thane armour, all this time?

"You don't know who made your armour, do you?" she asked slowly, fixing me with a steady look.

I glanced down to the chestpiece, my eyes tracing the Whiterun crest on its breast. "It's...real?"

Lydia was in front of me then, holding out a light blue padded tunic and dark leggings, and swapping them for the chestpiece. "As real as my armour," she scoffed. "Just...prettier. And, custom made to fit you, and your needs. You couldn't ask for finer armour. Look. See here?" she turned the leather over, pointing to a tiny indentation on the back, near the neckline. "Recognise that?"

I peered at the marks, realising that it was a small maker's seal. It was so tiny that it was no wonder I had never noticed it, and I had no idea how the smithy had even made it. I couldn't even determine its form. A wheel, perhaps?

"Whose mark is it?" I frowned, taking the chestpiece back to inspect it. I shifted closer to the candlelight on my side table, but was still unable to figure out what the mark was.

Lydia sighed in exasperation at me. "It's your future _uncle-in-law's_ ," her laugh tittered around my bed chamber.

" _What_?!"

My flush hit my cheeks with a whoosh, as though a dragon had breathed on my face. I looked closer, certain that she was wrong. _Alvor_ had made this? The Jarl had commissioned _Alvor_ to make my Thane armour?! Why hadn't _anybody_ told me? I ran my fingertips over the small mark, still unable to make out more than a circular shape; it was too dark in my bedroom to see it properly.

"I had no idea," I turned the armour around, raking my wide eyes over it; properly, for the first time.

The finely stitched leather and silvery chain links both caught the weak candle flame in different ways; one glowing warmly, and the other glittering beautifully. If Alvor _had_ made this for me, then there was no further doubt in my mind as to whether it would protect me. His family had always protected me. And the beauty of the garment made sense, once I connected it to Hadvar's uncle. Hadn't I inspected his work myself, the first night I had stayed in their home, marvelling over the fineness of the etching on a piece of armour in his shop? Hadn't I held – and worn on more than one occasion – the delicate jewellery that he had formed by the same hand that worked weapons and armour for the Legion's contract? Alvor poured his skill, his creativity, into all he made, and this – this armour that I had thought too graceful to be real, had been crafted by him, not for the Dragonborn or the Thane of a Hold, but for _me_.

"I'm an idiot," I admitted in a mutter as I laid the armour on the bed and lifted my night shirt over my head. When war was no longer on our doorstep, I would write and thank him, though I had no idea how I could explain why it had taken me so long to do so. To soften the blow, if he felt one at all, perhaps I could also send him money for the jewellery he had given me to sell. I had decided, some time ago, that I couldn't bare parting with the three pieces, so it was high time that I paid him for them.

Lydia helped me to dress, clearly eager for us to get moving, and she would not let my awkward mistake go. "I can't _believe_ you didn't ask when you had doubts about its functionality. I just assumed you didn't _like_ it," she laughed.

I shook my head, searching for excuses that didn't sound ridiculous, but came up with nothing. "I...truly, barely thought about it, after I first saw it. No – actually, I think I _did_ intend on asking you whether or not it was real, and then forgot to."

"Hmm," Lydia smirked at me. "A likely story."

"You can't _blame_ me for believing it wasn't proper armour," insisted as Lydia tugged the padded tunic down over my head. "I'm no expert on any of this, and when I first saw it, it was on a mannequin over a silk dress."

" _That_ was the Jarl's doing," Lydia was full of amusement. "He loves to see his ladies of the court dressed up in their finery," she teased, holding the scrunched up leggings out for me to ease a foot into.

"Stop it," I swatted at her, flushing again.

"Then get moving," Lydia widened her eyes pointedly, but stepped back and palmed me the leggings, allowing me the space to dress myself. "If the Stormcloaks are on the horizon, we must hurry."

"We are ready to face them," I assured her, stretching my legs into the tight-fitting garments.

And we were; not only had we prepared Whiterun adequately, but the Legion had made contact the day before from nearby Rorikstead, where they had set up camp. It was my hope that both Vilkas, and Hadvar, were accompanying them. If the lookouts Balgruuf had placed had alerted the Jarl to our enemy's approach, it would be a matter of hours before the Legion joined us.

I threw on the tasset and chestpiece that I now knew had been made by Alvor Ebonhand, wishing that I had more time to appreciate the pieces for what they were. Lydia stepped forward again to help me tighten straps and secure links, and once I had slipped into the arm bracers and boots, I was ready to move. I whipped my hair out of my eyes and braided it hastily as we made for the door, pinning the braid up so that it would not fly around and risk distracting me.

Lydia marched by my side, bearing her own weapons, and mine; my bow and quiver, both of which had been ready for this battle for days. The quiver was full of steel-tipped arrows that Adrianne had supplied to everybody who would fight, and I had adjusted the tension of the bow string _just_ enough so that I could draw it without shaking.

When we reached the war room, we turned left, and pushed on through the great doors that led to the vast open balcony the Jarl had called us to; the Great Porch. The high, curved roof of the semi-enclosed section wasn't visible in the pitch of night, but I couldn't stop myself from staring up into the nothingness, trying to make out the lines of the dark, cold, dusty candelabra that I knew was swinging solemnly up there somewhere.

It was an odd space; one that I had spent barely any time in, and to be honest, I had a feeling that not many of the castle's current inhabitant's spent much time here either. It was not conveniently situated, and there was an air about the balcony that made it uncomfortable. The stone arch at the very end of the enclosed area formed a perfect wind tunnel, so it was usually frigidly cold and blustery. An ancient, somewhat frayed carpet ran the length of the part which had a roof and bales of hay were stacked against the walls, shoved around ancient, rusted mechanisms that clearly no longer served any purpose.

The stories I had read of Dragonsreach while I'd been studying had of course been full of the porch. It was said that King Olaf One-Eye, during his time as the Jarl of Whiterun, had imprisoned the dragon Numinex in this very space. The legend did somewhat account for the old gears and chains, the strange aspect, the vastness of the expanse, and possibly even how uncomfortable striding through it made me feel. Before Helgen, I had believed it to be just another glorious and fabricated song, to entertain others with, as we saw fit. We had studied the tale; dissected it, questioned the authenticity of the claims surrounding it and how much artistic license had to be assumed, with the open mindset and distance maintained by scholars.

But now as more and more legends I had learned about became real? If the story of Numinex _was_ true, and the dragon had been restrained in this very room during ancient times, I doubted the sanity of the once High King. Why even _try_ to contain an enormous wriggling, screaming mass of muscle and fire? What purpose would it serve? And, I had to admit that at its core, I couldn't dismiss the callus cruelty of such an act. As Dragonborn, I might have a career full of dragon slaying in my future, but I had heard enough of a dragon's inner thoughts to understand that they were vastly more intelligent than the myths gave them credit for. To deny a dragon its freedom to fly, or its death, would have been torture.

At the end of the lengthy corridor I spied a gathering of people, all with their backs facing us. As Lydia and I drew closer, I recognised the majority of them. The Jarl was at the centre; his hands rested on the edge of the balcony and his eyes set on the horizon, with his housecarls either side of him. The Jarl's trusted advisors included Commander Caius of the Whiterun Guard, Farengar, Idolaf Battle-Born, a broad, dark-haired soldier I didn't recognise in what looked like extremely heavy Imperial armour, and –

"Vilkas!" I whispered in abject relief; placing the shadowed form of my shield-brother the moment I laid eyes on him.

He turned at the sound of my voice, casting me a grim nod and murmuring something I couldn't hear to the soldier next to him. The soldier turned to face us, as did each member of the Jarl's party as Lydia and I stopped before them. I wanted to run to Vilkas and hug him, ask him about their journey to Solitude, and tell him all about the Thalmor – _and_ make him aware that Lydia was now aware of his curse – but of course, there were more critical matters at hand. I made do with a small return nod of greeting, for the time being.

"Good, you are here," the Jarl quipped, his eyes narrowed as they glanced me up and down.

I lowered my head quickly. "Apologies for the delay, my Jarl."

"Never mind that," he waved his hand dismissively, then motioned toward the soldier who I didn't recognise. "Thane Passero, this is Legate Cipius," he introduced swiftly.

"It's my pleasure and relief to meet you, Lady Dragonborn," the Legate bowed swiftly.

"Likewise," I echoed his greeting before turning back to the Jarl. "Is it true, then?" I confirmed. "The Stormcloaks approach?"

"See for yourself," the Jarl drawled, moving aside as he raised his arm and motioned toward the horizon.

I stepped forward, positioning myself next to Vilkas, gripping the freezing cold stone of the balcony edge as I peered out toward the mountains in the distance. At the base of one of the large, faraway peaks, was a smudge of burnt orange.

"Fire?" I queried quietly.

"Torches," Vilkas corrected. "Approaching from the north-east," he added grimly.

"And you are certain?" I glanced up to him swiftly, openly.

Vilkas cast me a sideways look and nodded once.

The Jarl drew everybody's attention to him, and started at once issuing commands, outlining which of us would cover each area of the city and the outer walls. Legate Cipius was to lead the mounted officers, consisting of both Whiterun Guard and Empire soldiers, that would form the first line of defence, and Idolaf was to manage the Legion infantry that would follow them. Commander Caius was in charge of the defence of the outer walls, while Irileth was to take command of the archers inside the main gate. Hrongar was to remain at Dragonsreach, to coordinate with the Jarl during the battle and with a delegation of Whiterun Guard, to ensure that there was a final line of defence, should one be required.

"Vilkas, naturally you will lead the Companions," the Jarl outlined, "and it will be your task to patrol the eastern and southern borders of the city walls, ensuring that any Stormcloaks stupid enough to attempt an attack on those fronts are stopped. And Celeste," he glanced to me briefly, as though to confirm I was paying attention. "You will support Caius, on the outer walls. Take position with the archers there, and make sure that the Stormcloaks _see_ you. I want them to _know_ who they are dealing with, the moment they sight the city. Farengar," the Jarl continued immediately, his hard as ice eyes swivelling to his court mage, "you will shadow and defend Celeste with your spells, while Lydia defends her with steel. Should your post be overrun, you shield them and fall back to the second gate, and then the next, and should our main gate fall, you bring her back to Dragonsreach. We'll have need of _both_ of you during the final defence."

Swallowing nervously, I nodded with a glance at Farengar, though the Jarl's words had been aimed at his mage, not at me. Farengar seemed unsurprised, or perhaps even unfazed by his placement.

Lydia had warned me that the Jarl might place me in a position of command when the time came to divide and fight. I had disagreed with her, on account of my complete lack of experience. I had clumsily struggled my way out of a variety of skirmishes and snuck up on bandits to fire on them, but I had never been in the middle of a war. I had no idea of what to expect, and perhaps that was why I was not as terror-struck as I might have been otherwise. But I was certain that if the Jarl put me in charge of any body but myself, I would be responsible for their deaths.

 _Your sister is one of Ulfric's Generals._

I huffed at the reminder as Lydia's hand rested on my arm in support, signalling that she was here for me. I felt myself relax a little. As we had discussed, she would be by my side the entire battle no matter what the Jarl wanted me to do, and together, she and I would do what was necessary. And despite his tendency to keep rather important information from me, I actually felt a little relieved by Farengar's appointment, too.

Now that we had been assigned, the Jarl went on to explain the objective of each position; our goals, potential weaknesses, and how each should fall back, should the Stormcloaks break through the defences.

When he asked Irileth to prepare the summons for the Imperial Legion, for Proventus had departed with the Jarl's children of course, I realised that he was done, and that apart from those few, brief instructions, he _was_ trusting the stratagem for each point's attack to each individual officer.

The moment the Jarl asked for the Divines to guide us and then dismissed us to our duties, Lydia and I moved toward the doors leading back into Dragonsreach. I motioned hurriedly for Vilkas to join us.

My shield brother jogged to my side. "He's put you on the front line!" Vilkas hissed, before I could get a hello in, then turned me to face him, halting our exit in the middle of the Great Porch. "Why did you agree to this?" he implored.

I blinked up at him, lifting my eyebrows. "You don't believe me capable of-?"

"Don't do that," he looked out toward the horizon, exhaling a sharp puff of air that clouded in front of his face. "You are capable of _many_ things," he conceded, shaking his head as he turned back to me. "But. You are a Companion," he whispered. "You should be stationed with _us_. This will be your first battle – and the Stormcloaks will _know_ it," he faltered, meeting my eye. " _We_ can't protect you, divided like this," he owned, breathing out another somewhat restrained breath.

I cast him an endearing smile, but Lydia interjected before I could reply.

"Peace, Vilkas," she shook her head minutely, speaking very quietly, but directly, her green eyes flickering over Vilkas' form a little uncertainly. "I will shadow her every move, and Farengar will be shielding her with magic," she tilted her head to meet his eyes. "And, if I fall, you will be able to feel that she is in danger and come running, won't you?" she asked carefully.

Vilkas' eyes widened as he took in what she had said, and then his silvery gaze was back on me; flashing and furious. "What did Farkas _do_ -?"

"Don't," I pointed a finger at him to cut off his impending tirade. "We got into trouble on the path home from Mixwater. Farkas saved us," I pointed out, perhaps more harshly than I should have.

Vilkas took a step back, becoming pale as a wariness settled on his features. "You were attacked?" he grimaced.

I nodded, but didn't elaborate beyond continuing with a short, "And survived."

"There is no time for this," Lydia insisted hurriedly, casting a glance behind us at the approach of multiple footfalls.

"Lady Dragonborn," Commander Caius was suddenly there before me, dipping his head briefly in both respect and welcome, with Farengar beside him. "This way, if you please," he motioned toward the doors that led to the war room. "I need everybody in position early, to assess the weak points in our lines," he explained.

"Yes, at once," I fell into step beside him, and Farengar wordlessly fell into step beside me.

I cast an apologetic glance Vilkas' way and hoped that his and Farkas' beasts wouldn't panic during the battle. There really was no time to talk, or to reassure him, so they would have to trust that there were others beside themselves who had a vested interest in keeping Skyrim's fated Dragonborn alive.

The Commander cast me a sideways glance as we walked. "Are you any use with that bow?" he motioned toward my weapon, which I had slung over my shoulder with my quiver while the Jarl had been talking to us.

"I'm a...fair shot," I half-shrugged, uncertain of what terminology to use.

"You are too modest, my Thane," Lydia spoke up warmly, a step behind us. "Commander; you are addressing the woman who has downed two dragons with that bow," she added with some pride.

I gave Lydia a doubtful look while I felt Farengar's eyes settle on me as we continued. I had _not_ taken down two dragons with my bow, and _everybody_ knew it.

"You have encountered another dragon, since the Western Watchtower?" the mage asked curiously in his thick, heavy accent.

I cast him a swift look. "Yes. During a Companion mission. Vilkas was with me-"

"Did it pursue you, or was it uninterested in your movements until you fired upon it?" he cut in.

I crossed my brows at Farengar. "Now is really not the time for such questions," I evaded. While I had tried to put the Thalmor attack behind me, I had not forgotten about their interest in Delphine Comtois. And if Farengar wanted answers of me – at a more appropriate time – I would not offer them freely.

"Correct. And, good," the Commander sighed, shaking his balding head. "Because the Jarl will have my head if any harm comes to you while you are under my watch, no matter who has your back. It relieves me to know that you can somewhat defend yourself."

I huffed a laugh, surprised by his honest frankness, and raised my eyebrows. "If there is a need, I will use the thu'um."

"Her protection is our prerogative," Lydia spoke up swiftly and sharply, almost over the top of me. "Place us where the Stormcloaks can see, but not reach us, as the Jarl desires, and both Farengar and I will ensure she is defended," Lydia added with certainty.

I heard Farengar _hmph_ , likely because a housecarl had deigned to speak for him, but he didn't have time to respond.

The Commander made a sound of amused assent, then almost laughed as he added, "The Stormcloaks won't know what to think, when they see _you_ standing at the front of the Whiterun defence."

 _They'll think I'm an imposter,_ I thought as I glanced over the empty tables and chairs as we passed through the Jarl's audience chamber. "Commander, I believe that is the Jarl's plan," I murmured in reply.

–

The outer walls where the Jarl had stationed Commander Caius and I had been altered greatly since Lydia, Farkas and I had returned from Windhelm. The sections that had once been crumbling had been repaired with wooden scaffolding, and where the stone had fallen away entirely, thick boards had been erected to provide cover to those positioned there. Barricades made of sharpened logs were set up at intervals throughout each of the open areas between each of the three gates that the Stormcloaks would need to break through to make it into Whiterun proper, and large versions of the same barricades blocked both of the open gateways.

Commander Caius placed me front and centre of the very first gatehouse the Stormcloaks would encounter. Again, the prospect didn't make me as nervous as it should have. During our preparations to defend Whiterun, I had worked out much of my anxiety, and in its place had risen a slightly jumpy desire to get this job done so our lives could move on.

As the dark of night was still upon us, torches set at intervals lit our way, sometimes wedged into the rock itself. The gatehouse had been strengthened with stone and wood alike, and with ample blockades of solid rock to duck behind on both sides of the platform that we walked along, should any Stormcloak archers decide to aim our way, it would provide better defence than most places along the wall.

"I will be positioned at the gatehouse there, to begin with," the Commander pointed out the tower opposite us. "Should you have need of me, ask Farengar to send up a signal. The Stormcloaks won't be using magic, so any of your more benevolent spells will do the trick," he shrugged.

Farengar agreed to this plan by murmuring something about flaming spheres.

The Commander addressed me directly then, reaching his hand out to me. "Lady Dragonborn?" he began.

I hurriedly gripped his arm, as he seemed to expect me to do.

"May the Divines protect you," he clasped my arm in return.

"And you," I added automatically.

Once the Commander had left us, Farengar sighed and leaned against the wall lazily.

I glanced to Lydia, whose lips were pursed; she was unimpressed by the mage's relaxed pose. I had to somewhat agree with her; Farengar seemed aloof, and soon we would need to entrust him with our lives.

I turned back to Farengar myself, raising an eyebrow at him. "Are you bored, Farengar?" I asked quietly.

From under his hood, I saw the curve of his mouth arch knowingly, and he turned to peer over the edge of the gatehouse wall, onto the path the Stormcloaks would have to tread if they hoped to gain entry to the city. "Far from it," he assured me warmly.

"Good," Lydia stepped up beside Farengar, gripping the side of the gatehouse for herself as she stared out into the still, quiet night. "When the Stormcloaks see Celeste, it is likely that a portion of them will target her. I will cover this way," she nodded toward the path that the Commander had brought us along. "And you will cover that way," she indicated the opposite direction, that the Commander had left us along a moment ago.

Farengar frowned. "They will have archers, Lydia. What of attacks from the ground, from the east and west?"

"Well," I stepped up beside my housecarl, tired of being talked about rather than to. "I can cover the west," my eyes flit over the darkened road beneath us. Through the shadows, I could just make out the stable yard in the distance, though I knew it had been boarded up and emptied of horses the previous day. "And, should they make it through the first barricade," I flickered my protectors a glance, wishing to remind them that we were defending _each other_ in this endeavour, "We can take cover from the west here," I gripped the edge of the stone wall. "You two can continue defending the access points, and I'll turn on those running east."

Briefly, we talked further about the various strategies we could utilise, but eventually, as the eastern horizon paled and the promised hoards of Legion officers arrived from the west, we fell into silence and simply watched the orderly lines of soldiers as they were assigned and assembled.

Unsaid between us was the understanding that it didn't matter how we planned to ensure that each point and person was covered adequately at all times. We would have to react and adapt to what was before us, once the battle had commenced.

 _Improvise,_ I thought with a dull thud.

I watched the torches below bob about and shadowed forms shift from place to place, wondering if Hadvar was amongst those who had just arrived. I hadn't had time to talk to Vilkas about what had happened in Solitude, and Hadvar had made it sound as though his promotion had removed him from the front lines.

The reminder heartened me, and I glanced up as a beautiful green aurora, tipped in pink, unfurled before the stars. _I hope he is far away, and safe,_ I thought to the colours materialising to meander high above us. But then, if he could see Whiterun right now – if he _was_ with those who had arrived from Rorikstead – he would probably be wishing that I was far away from here, too.

The silence between Farengar, Lydia and I persisted for there was nothing more to talk of that could gain traction against our focus on the impending attack, and the seemingly endless line of torches from the east snaked closer toward Whiterun at every moment.

–

The morning that broke over the high mountains was glorious. The stars gradually blinked out one by one, hidden in the soft grey-blue of the sky, and on the horizon, barely above the line of the ranges, the thin clouds accumulated burned red, then orange, then gold.

Messengers, most wearing Legion leathers, had been drifting along the gate walls almost constantly since the skies had begun to lighten, so we were well aware that the majority of Stormcloaks had assembled out of our line of sight, beyond Honningbrew Meadery, while two smaller parties had situated themselves further afield. One had placed themselves close to Battle-Born and Chillfurrow farms, while the other had settled near the ruins of the Western Watchtower.

At my request, the news of the first break-off group had been related to Vilkas at once; it was likely that those soldiers were going to attempt to gain entry to Whiterun by means other than the front gate. And while the faction who had gone to the disused watchtower were surrounded by too much open space to get close enough to scout them, it was assumed that it was to serve as the base of Stormcloak operations in the region. This, it was murmured, was where Ulfric Stormcloak would be, if he had chosen to come to Whiterun himself to manage his invasion.

I had set my eyes on what I could see of the old watchtower, as soon as I could make it out in the pre-dawn, narrowing them as I somewhat callously hoped that the remains of the dragon that the Whiterun guards had taken out there would unnerve them. The whole of Skyrim was aware of the significance of this particular dragon, and of the watchtower itself, for it had been there that I had first taken in the soul of a dying wyrm, and used the thu'um, revealing the existence of the dragon within me to the people of Skyrim.

The sun had been risen for well over an hour before there were any signs of Stormcloak activity. Everybody waiting within Whiterun had been growing edgy; eager as I to get on with it, it seemed. The anticipation thickened as the blue of the sky deepened and the horizons paled.

But then a murmuring began amongst the defenders, and it didn't take long for all eyes to be directed toward the approach of three mounted officers, riding in from – as we had anticipated – the Western watchtower. I squinted as I attempted to make out more of the small blurs, but all I could determine was that the central rider was large and wore brown – very likely fur, I reasoned, as the Stormcloak Generals tended to favour – and those flanking him wore the trademark Stormcloak blue.

When the Stormcloaks reached the border of Pelagia farm, I noticed a figure riding toward them, with four Whiterun guards and a huge man in scaled armour close behind him.

I did a double take as the sun caught the blonde of the central figure's hair and glinted off something else around his head. I stared, realising it was a golden circlet. _Jarl Balgruuf_? I blinked, my eyes widening as my hand fell to Lydia's arm, gripping her urgently as fear rose within me.

"What is the _Jarl_ doing out there?" I asked in a horrified hiss. Shouldn't he have been in Dragonsreach as he had outlined, to manage our people from the safety of his fortress?

Lydia had jumped when I had grabbed her, but it was Farengar who answered my question.

"Did you honestly believe that the Jarl would both trust and risk anybody but himself to meet the Stormcloak's generals to discuss the particulars of the battle for his Hold?" he asked in that amused manner of his that made everything he said sound like a taunt.

"What is likely," Lydia emphasised, casting Farengar a warning glance, "is that Jarl Balgruuf hopes to convince them to call off the attack," she detangled my hand from her arm, giving my hand a light, encouraging squeeze instead. "He may be a red-blooded Nord who craves the _glory_ of battle with the best and bravest of us," she said in a softer tone, "but he will do what is right by his people, first."

I frowned, watching the distant group with interest. "He believes he can make the Stormcloaks change their mind, even now?"

Lydia shrugged. "I doubt it. He knows Stormcloak better than most, and will know that he will have ordered his Generals to take Whiterun at all costs. But still, he will strive to sway them."

"And _they_ will be encouraging him to surrender before they commence their bloodbath," Farengar murmured.

I shuddered at the detachment to his tone, and it was the word _bloodbath_ that awoke a nausea within me, in the depths of my stomach. That was what this would be, no matter who won the city. It would be painted with either the blood of our people, or of those who attacked it. With a certainty that stilled me, I understood that if the former eventuated, I would have to watch as it happened. Stormcloak wanted to _talk_ to me, when all was said and done. It was highly unlikely that I was to be counted amongst the fallen today; a thought that both relieved, and simultaneously horrified me.

The air was cool but smelled of smoke; many of the night's torches had been left to burn out, and the grey tendrils of extinguished flame drifted across the scene before us like thin, pale ghosts, biding their time at the impending certainty of the fallen that they could drag to Sovngarde, or Aetherius, or wherever their beliefs had promised their eternal souls.

I had to find some way to stay optimistic; now was not the time to lose my nerve or hope. We were ready; we were backed by the Legion. We would _not_ fall. I watched on as the nine mounted figures stood together for a time, wishing that I could hear what they were discussing. Was this how a battle worked, I wondered? Representatives of each side meeting peacefully on the battlefield, in a final attempt to talk it out? Had wars been won before they had begun in this way? Perhaps yes, but then, would they even be recorded as battles, as they had been diffused before any blood could be shed?

The assembled group split suddenly into three and six; the Stormcloak soldiers riding away and the Jarl and his entourage directing their mounts back to Whiterun.

A horn sounded from afar; a singular low, animalistic note that travelled far on the morning breeze and across the plains surrounding the city. The Jarl and his riders neared the city; the barricades at the first gate were shifted aside temporarily, hurriedly, to allow him to pass.

"Stand ready, protectors of Whiterun!" the Jarl called once he'd directed his horse around the spiked barricade. Lydia, Farengar and I whirled around to continue watching him as he and his party made their way toward the main gate.

"Today is a momentous day for Skyrim," the Jarl's deep, powerful voice rang out clearly, resounding between the outer walls, even as he rode further from us. "Today we stand and protect what is ours, to show the Stormcloaks that Whiterun will _not_ tremble under Ulfric's glare. Protect your comrades; protect our allies," the Jarl hesitated on his horse, tugging at the reigns to turn around. I could barely make out his face, but I could tell that it was trained on our gatehouse; on us. "Protect the Dragonborn, the champion of Skyrim, who fights by your side, for your home as well as hers, today."

I gripped my bow handle a little tighter in my hand. I felt several sets of eyes glance toward me, but was too focussed on the Jarl to care. I had always known he meant to use me, my status that was, to rally his forces, but I found that in this case, I did not mind at all.

"The Divines smile upon those with courage in their hearts," from his tone, I could tell he was drawing to a close. "And they smile on _Whiterun_ today."

Turning his horse around, he rode away swiftly, his brief, inspiring speech seemingly at its end as the soldiers below and beside us cheered. As he disappeared through the second gateway and the spiked blockade was shifted back into place, I heard his voice bounce between the walls again, only this time I could make out none of what he said.

My shoulders sagged as the hurruhs dissolved into the hum of activity, but I snapped to attention when a sharp, echoing _crack_ from abroad rent the air.

I turned, ducking instinctively as I saw a large, flaming mass of rock fly over our guardhouse. My eyes followed it, and I startled as it impacted the main wall of Whiterun with a resounding _BOOM_.

"Eyes front," Lydia ordered, hauling me around by the arm.

Nodding; realising that the battle had _begun_ , I positioned an arrow; my eyes trained on the road, flickering over the stables, the farms beyond, the meadery; searching for that angry mob that I knew would swarm into sight at any moment.

I heard them before I saw them, though I had not realised what I heard at first; a low, rumbling sound underneath the calls and sounds of final preparation closer to us. But eventually, the roaring sea of voices screaming unintelligible battle cries overtook all else. While I contained my surprise, my heart leapt when the clearings around the sparse settlements outside of the outer walls suddenly seemed to be teaming with roiling, charging, Stormcloak blue; an ocean tide, surging forward to flood us.

Another set of battle cries; these voices closer, overtook the Stormcloak's rabble. The infantry consisting of both Empire red and Whiterun yellow, and Legate Cipius' mounted officers charged forward across the clearings, then split, to surround the approaching enemies.

"Remember, my Thane," Lydia was saying quietly, ducked down beside me with her own bow poised and ready and her widened eyes on the two fronts about to crash into one another at any moment. "Whatever happens today, or in the days to come if the siege is to be a long one," she whispered. "I will _die_ before I let them lay a finger on you."

I swallowed but that was all the reply I could muster; my voice seemed to have fled in my efforts to steady my mind and aim my bow. There would be no firing on the Stormcloaks until Commander Caius had given the order, but I wanted to be ready for that instant, when the call came.

"You and I both, it would seem," Farengar replied to Lydia's vow in a droll voice.

I crossed my brows at his tone but his words didn't warrant a reply, though I wondered how he could continue to be so unaffected, given the enormity of the collision about to take place.

Whiterun and Legion met Stormcloaks in a flurry of primary colours, the intimidating battle cries accompanied by the ring of steel meeting steel; immediately joined by screams from man, woman and horse alike.

With another _crack_ of wood meeting wood, a second ball of flaming rock soared overhead, aimed once again on the main wall of Whiterun. My eyes were centred on the battle beyond us, but the ground shook when it impacted its target and I pressed my shoulder into the stone wall we were using as cover to steady myself.

The cluster of bodies mixing and falling before us swelled at its centre momentarily, before break off groups of fighters began to form on the outskirts. Divisions occurred, and inevitably, clusters of blue shifted as one, drawing nearer to the outer walls; their objective clear.

"AIM," Commander Caius' officious cry rang out from his position in the guard house opposite us.

The sound of armour shifting as bows were lifted made barely an impact on the chaos below growing ever nearer. I sideways-glanced at Lydia; her focus was poised; her bow drawn. I lifted mine smoothly, inhaling a deep breath to stabilise me. In the mass of approaching soldiers, I singled out a blue cuirass, and trained my eyes on that particular soldier's movements as I narrowed my eyes.

"FIRE!"

Arrows were loosed toward the approaching party, and beyond. The breakaway Stormcloaks, battling Legion and Whiterun infantry on their fringes, ducked and held up shields as the volley reached them. There were screams; some of their numbers fell, but their shields had taken the brunt of the attack, if the multiplied _thunk_ of steel tips meeting wooden marks was anything to judge by. Had my arrow met its mark? There was no way to tell.

Grimacing, I placed another arrow, drawing and waiting for the Commander's orders.

"You should probably stand up now, Miss Passero," Farengar advised.

I turned on him, faltering as the Commander called for the archers on the outer walls to take aim again.

"And do what?" I asked him swiftly, turning back to face the oncoming mass as I lifted my bow and trained my arrow on another blue cuirass.

A gold light surrounded me. I glanced about swiftly, to see that it was coming from Farengar's hands. He had cast a spell to encircle us.

"Let yourself be seen, as the Jarl requested," Farengar's hands were before him as the bright shield flowed in a continual trail of thrumming light, leading from him to the sphere about us. "Let them _know_ you," he added. The glare from the ward allowed me to see under his hood, and his eyes were narrowed on the approaching mass. "Let the Stormcloaks hear the _true_ Dragonborn's roar, before they die."

 _Roar,_ I queried, shuddering at his finality? I stood, lowering my bow as the Commander called for the archers who were ready to fire. Lydia's bow twanged audibly as she loosed, but then my housecarl stood, and stepped within the bounds of Farengar's shield.

"A thu'um this early in the battle will draw the entire Stormcloak army to her," Lydia protested urgently, her words coming fast and her eyes sharp and focussed on the mage.

"Good!" Farengar snapped. "The sooner they come, the sooner we will win this ridiculous battle."

I glanced to Lydia, uncertain for many reasons. Farengar's indifference in the field was disturbing enough to give me pause before following his directions.

But I hated to admit that I _did_ agree with him on one account. "Lydia," I took her hands quickly and squeezed. "If there are Stormcloaks out there right now, fighting because they believe _I_ am on their side," I rushed, "a thu'um might stop them in their tracks."

"In your own time, Celeste!" Farengar drawled, though for the first time there was a sense of urgency underpinning his words.

I let go of Lydia's hands and tore my gaze from hers, mechanically lifting myself up into the gap in the wall that I had been firing between. I clenched my bow in one hand, and simply clenched my fist on my other side as the morning breeze buffeted against me and I adjusted my stance to account for it. I could see so much more from up here, and while Farengar's shield spell gave all around me a golden hue, the sheer mass of blue approaching the barricade made my heart leap in fear.

Another _crack_ ; another fiery mass of stone soared over us, impacting Whiterun's innermost wall with a _thud_. I felt Lydia's hands grip my legs; steadying me while the stones shuddered, as though the city itself was sighing.

 _Do it_ , I ordered myself. The wind whipped my hair out of my face as I took a deep breath through my nose, and allowed my emotions; my fear and my fury, pool within my core.

"Yol, Teor Shool!" was screamed from the plains to the right of the guardhouse, amplified unnaturally so it might be heard, though just barely, over the din of war.

My mounting shout deflated as I turned toward the cry. That had _not_ been the dragon tongue, but a human tongue wrapped around words it didn't understand in a vain, pathetic attempt to emulate it. But there had been no depth to the cry; the resonant harmonics weren't present at all, and the words had not impacted on my soul, or translated automatically within my mind.

"Oho," I heard Farengar snipe with a lilt of amusement. "Very clever, you little witch!"

I stared, unmoved by his words, trying to determine where exactly the fake shout had come from; on where _she_ was. With my sister's last known location being Riften, I had not stopped to think that _she_ might come here, to _this_ battle; to _me_. I was so focussed on who I _knew_ it meant was out there, and so focussed on what she hoped to achieve by speaking the words of the dragon without the power of the thu'um behind her, that I failed to notice the ball of orange flames flying toward me until Lydia tugged me off the wall.

The fireball exploded on Farengar's shield with a shattering _BOOM_ , and I covered my ears as its power coalesced and whooshed around us.

"Get back up there!" Farengar shouted through his grimace as he reinforced his ward. "My spell will hold against hers. Unless you _want_ her to steal our thunder?"

Realising what Giselle had done, and how the Stormcloaks were perpetuating the lie they had begun – she was a mage, after all – my resolve hardened. Whichever way the battle went, I _would_ face her, before we were finished.

I tried to rise but Lydia's arms were locked around my shoulders.

"Let me go," I ordered Lydia quietly, settling my eyes on my housecarl for a moment. "I will make them listen."

Lydia seemed to have forgotten that she was holding me; her eyes were fixed, and narrowed on the part of the plains that the false shout had originated from. " _She_ is out there?" Lydia hissed, almost to herself.

A splintering sound joined the shouts and clashing steel, and when Lydia let me go and helped me back onto the wall, I looked down. The Stormcloaks that remained from their first wave had reached the barricade between the gate houses. Half were hammering against it with swords, maces and war axes, while others held their shields aloft in an attempt to cover their comrades from the arrows raining down upon them.

Allowing the obscure, snaking brightness room to rise within me once again, I tapped the indignation I felt for my sister and fed it into the wild brightness that I knew to be the dragon Akatosh had placed inside of me. The unfinished shout surged up and out of me, ready at once to do my bidding; the note in between notes that my bard's training had never prepared me for but felt more natural to me than singing ever had.

" _FUS_ ," I Shouted. The shock wave flowed from me, unhindered by Farengar's shield; the force a spell in its own right, and my storm pushed the wave of Stormcloaks and the swarm of Legion and Whiterun soldiers battling them away from the barricade. Enemy and ally alike tumbled from the first gateway, struggling to gain purchase against the road, the nearby stable yard fence, and each other.

The Imperial and Whiterun soldiers recovered swiftly, and while my breaths calmed as the power of the thu'um quietened within me, I took their response, and their speed, to mean that they had expected me to use it.

While the twenty or so Stormcloaks I had knocked back groaned and picked themselves back up, some glancing toward me with eyes filled with betrayed horror but most with glares of malice, a number of them were descended upon by our allied officers. The Commander's call to fire resulted in the felling of several more, and swiftly, the first wave was conquered.

I watched, my eyes wide and roving the scene as the men and women wearing blue below me were slain, but I felt nothing for them. I turned back to the plains to my right, searching for my sister. Had she heard _my_ Shout? Did she understand that the lies she had spread with Stormcloak were exposed? Did she feel worried? Did she feel _anything_?

 _Chink. Chink chink._

I winced, brought back to the now as the first arrow of three bounced off Farengar's shield and clattered against the stone wall as they tumbled, diffused, to the earth below.

"Yol, Teor, SHOOL!" my sister's cry came again, from somewhere near Pelagia farm this time.

This time I was _certain_ that she was using something, a hollowed bull's horn perhaps, to amplify her voice. They had certainly put considerable effort into their lie, but then the only living who had witnessed the true power of my thu'um before today were those Whiterun guards who had been with me at the Western Watchtower, and the Companions.

"It's Yol Toor Shul, _idiot_ ," I bit out in a mutter, even while I couldn't seem to rouse the snaking fire within me to use the words properly for myself.

Gritting my teeth as I tried to distinguish Giselle's form amongst the mass of bodies battling around the farm, I cursed as I spotted the bright orange ball of flame she had cast flying toward us.

Wondering how much longer Farengar might be able to hold his shield, I determined not to risk it and leapt down from the wall before the fire hit. Again, the ward was impacted by the flames, but not destroyed, though it flickered and paled until Farengar threw back the contents of a little blue magica bottle.

"She's _butchering_ the dragon tongue," I muttered to Lydia through clenched teeth as I peered around the wall, lifting my bow and placing an arrow as the Commander's powerful voice called for his people to aim once more. "The little _cow_ is making them believe she's the dragonborn by _speaking_ words somebody has told her," I hissed. _Probably Stormcloak,_ I realised, as Commander Caius gave the call to fire.

I loosed, turning to Lydia as soon as our arrows had soared out of sight. "She's not even saying the words properly!" I thundered belatedly to my housecarl, my anger rising at every moment.

Lydia threw me an unimpressed look. "Perhaps it is time to use _your_ thu'um again?" she suggested.

"Yes," I agreed, mounting the wall even as I realised that Lydia's look had not been out of disdain for my sister's efforts, but a warning to me, that I gain some perspective.

It was gained when I glanced over the ledge to see the fight directly below us. The ground seemed to be littered in red-smeared soldiers from all three armies, yet still others clashed around them, and still another cluster of blue-clad soldiers were trying to smash their way through the first of the barricades.

"Stop!" I ordered them, my thought to make them look at me before I used the thu'um this time, but my voice was swallowed by the clamour of battle raging all around us, punctuated by another keening whoosh as a fiery boulder soared overhead.

Giving up on my own voice to make a difference on this field, I let out another harsh, " _FUS_!"

I was immediately rewarded. The Stormcloaks flew back, pitching over one another as the dragon tongue oscillated through them. My heart thudded in double-time as I watched the arrows rain down from our wall upon the stumbling Stormcloaks, before they had been given a chance to recover.

"Foh crah din!" my sister's furious, boosted cry tore through the wake of my call, followed by a stream of frost that swelled and covered several Legion officers fighting near the stable yard.

My eyes widened, wondering what Giselle had been trying to shout, if anything. I had never heard _that_ before from a dragon. Was this _really_ how she worked the false dragonborn claim? By calling out made up words into a bullhorn, before firing with the spells she had been taught at the college in Winterhold?

 _Chink chink, chink._

Several more arrows rained down on the shield Farengar maintained faultlessly around us, but I ignored them, my attentions fixed on the point the frost spell was originating from. I could barely make out individual bodies in the flurry of movement. Several screams of pain tore through the nearby mass, and the frost spell dissipated, to be replaced at once by the searing bright white of a powerful shock spell.

I startled at the ferocity of the spears of whiteness edged in mauve as a handful of both Whiterun and Legion soldiers flew back in an arc; victims of my sister's power.

Even as the immediate circle of soldiers fell, another wave descended on the source of the magic, and while I saw both licks of flames and clouds of white frost erupt in bursts from the site of the skirmish, within seconds there was a muted cheer under the other nearer, more frenzied sounds of battle.

 _They have her,_ I realised, both in anticipation and dread.

"Finally," I heard Lydia mutter. I glanced to her swiftly; her eyes were hard, and on the same scene that I had been fixated on.

 _CRASH._

I glanced down in time to see that the barricade below the first gate house had been breached. The Stormcloaks who remained of the wave that had broken it flooded the entry. One of their number stopped before he stepped through, turning and raising a horn to his lips.

He managed to blow it once before an arrow found his neck and he toppled, crashing onto the broken logs of the barrier.

"Archers, divide and fire at will!" Commander Caius was calling over the roaring of the Stormcloaks. "Infantry, engage!"

Whipping around to face Whiterun itself, I was in time to see the Whiterun guards rush forward from the second gate to meet the Stormcloaks funnelling into the open space head on. Arrows flew in both directions now; within and outside of the gate.

So much was happening and it was all so confusing that I took a step back, and another, until my back was pressed against the stone wall. Farengar called out something to me, about using the thu'um again I assumed, and I nodded, turning back to face the farms. I stood on the wall again and Shouted at one of the approaching Stormcloak masses, my Voice flooring the men and women as it had all of the times before. Again, I felt nothing as the ringing note settled, and my eyes drifted toward the place where my sister had been restrained. The ground was scorched and frozen in places, and – I did a double take – I could finally _see_ her.

She was being restrained by no less than five Legionnaires. Her hands appeared to be bound behind her back and they must have gagged her, too, so she couldn't call out for help. Her small frame looked frail and pathetic beside the thick-set soldiers who were escorting her even as she thrashed about, and for a single second, I pitied and feared for her.

The fear shifted into horror as I realised that the Legion officers were leading her _away_ from Whiterun.

"No!" I screamed. _No_ , the Legion would _not have her_ , not before I had made her answer for all she had done, to both our family, and countless men and women since, including Hadvar's friend!

I leapt down from the wall and made to run from the gatehouse, much to the agitated surprise of Farengar, but Lydia must have anticipated my actions, for she caught hold of my arms even before I had made it to the boundary of Farengar's ward.

"They're taking her away!" I screeched, struggling to break out of Lydia's grip.

"It's what she deserves!" Lydia fired, her strong arms enclosing me as she dragged me back into the centre of the shield. A well-timed _chink_ reminded me that I was still a target, but at that moment I didn't care.

I twisted around, rounding on Lydia as my eyes flared. "She is _mine_ , Lydia. I shared a _womb_ with that woman," I pointed in the general direction of the retreating forms. "And she took everything that was good about my family, about the name Passero, and _destroyed_ it," I thundered.

Lydia shook her head in frustration. "We are in the middle of a war, Celeste! You step outside of this shield, and you'll be killed!" she yelled at me. "Then what purpose will all this vengeance serve?"

Screaming out in rage, because I knew she was _right_ , I didn't realise that I had punched the stone wall until I felt the cold jab of pain across the knuckles of my closed fists. I opened my eyes, which I hadn't realised I had slammed shut, and stared down at my bloodied hands in muted wonder.

"Your job here is to defend Whiterun, not to execute a personal vendetta against your twin," Farengar posed unhelpfully. "Why don't you use all that anger of yours in another dragon shout? It might make you feel better," he bit out.

I glared at him in time to see him down the contents of another blue bottle, which reminded me that he was another cog in this defensive machine, doing his part to contribute to the whole.

As I should have been doing. Turning away immediately, unwilling to meet either his or Lydia's eye, I lifted myself up onto the wall and ignored the throbbing pain swelling in my shaking, bleeding hands.

My sister and the soldiers leading her away were barely visible now, though I knew where to look for them. I prayed to Stendarr, God of Justice, that they would not take her far – that they would take her to Rorikstead, and no further – and that they would keep her conscious, for me.

The battle cry of approaching soldiers brought my attention back to the now, and the war we were fighting. I watched a cloud of Stormcloaks rushing toward the fallen first gate as though through a haze of time slowed down. Their fury seemed more vivid, more desperate than I had ever perceived it before. Did these men and women realise that their false dragonborn, one of their Generals, had been captured? Did they care?

Did _I_ care? Beyond standing in front of Giselle and making her answer my questions, _did_ I care what happened to her? The Empire had meant to execute her, when they had assumed I was her in Helgen, and given all I knew and had heard about her activities, she was a traitor who deserved such a fate.

" _FUS_!" I surged, forcing the oncoming Stormcloaks away from the gate. My vision blurred before I could tell whether they had all been taken out or regained their footing and continued their approach.

 _I shared a womb with that woman._ The words I had spoken to Lydia in fury repeated within my mind in a scared, childish whisper as my heart beat echoed in my ears.

I closed my eyes for just a moment, feeling dots of wetness trail down my cheeks. The _chink-chink_ of arrows hitting Farengar's ward fell to my ears as I breathed deep breaths in and out in an effort to regain my centre. The _crack_ of the Stormcloak's siege engine and subsequent keening whir of the boulder they had fired was amplified, and the shuddering of the ground beneath our feet as it hit the wall with another loud _CRACK_ made my eyes fly open at once.

I faced the city, staring in disbelief at the freshly gaping hole in the inner wall. They had broken it. If I did nothing, if I allowed myself to run after her; to be caught up in my sister's chaos and whatever it was that I was feeling, then Whiterun _would be lost_.

It was as though the tenuous strand of time that had twisted about and kept me from throwing myself into this fight had suddenly snapped. I breathed out swiftly to steady my bleeding hands, lifting my bow and firing as soon as I had aimed on one of the blue bodies racing across the clearing toward the city.

I forcefully pushed all thoughts of Giselle from my mind, and fought with my heart and soul for Whiterun.

* * *

 _A/n: Writing battles is **hard** , particularly from the perspective of a character who knows nothing about them.  
Cake-san, the truth about Celeste's Thane armour was for you ;) (hope you are still with me) - see, it was functional!  
And thank you for everyone who commented about not minding the length of this story...um, hope you enjoyed this (just over) 18,000 word chapter O.O_


	42. Smoke and Mirrors

_Chapter 42: Smoke and Mirrors_

Some time around midday there was a break to my blur of firing and Shouting. I had sighted a large and purposeful-looking figure in heavy Legion armour making haste toward the first gate from the direction of the city.

I squinted, watching their approach with interest because they seemed so different to all that I had observed for the past hours. I tapped Lydia to draw her attention – she was firing over the farm side of the gatehouse, then turned back to continue watching the newcomer. While the soldier – _she_ , I determined – certainly attacked any Stormcloaks in her way, she moved along from them swiftly and did not engage unless she had no other choice. She seemed to be in the middle of the battlefield for a reason other than to defend Whiterun.

"What is it?" Lydia turned, and as she did, the figure drew close enough for me to place her.

"That officer," I pointed toward the oncoming woman. "She...was at Helgen."

It was the Legate who had ordered my death, believing that I was Giselle.

"Celeste?" I heard caution in Lydia's hesitant reply.

I turned to her swiftly, feeling pale, despite their being no confusion over whose side I was on today. "What is she doing?"

The golden barrier that Farengar had been maintaining around us flickered. "Ask her yourself; she appears to be headed our way."

The mage's unaffected tone made me shake my head to dispel my immediate, irrational panic as in a snap, I turned back to see if what he had said was true. The Legate, whose name I either didn't know or didn't remember, was swinging her sword and blocking with her shield before her, her mouth curled into a snarl as her opponent dodged and continued running toward the second gate where the barricade was still being faultlessly maintained.

The Legate moving against all of the other soldiers let him go and continued her steady path toward the breached, first gate. Farengar had been right, but I was still taken aback when her head swivelled in our direction, and her eyes, though she was still too far away to be certain, searched for and then appeared to settle on _me_.

"You should _probably_ clear her way," Farengar prompted. "She is one of our allies, after all."

Lydia cursed in an undertone and lifted her bow, and by the time she had let her arrow loose, mine was placed. As the Legate fought her way to us, Lydia and I did what we could from our shielded platform of relative safety to fell the wave after wave of attackers raging around her.

Eventually the Nord woman ascended the ramp leading up to our gatehouse. The Legion and Whiterun officers posted along it let her pass without a second glance.

Then she was on our platform, and storming toward us; her hazel eyes cold, hard and narrowed on me.

For a second, I felt fear, exacerbated by Lydia's reaction as she flinched into a defensive position, half-stepping in front of me.

The Legate slowed before us, her unimpressed glare shifting to Lydia, then the woman drew to a halt. She almost pointedly remained a step outside of Farengar's ward.

"Lady Dragonborn," her eyes were back on me, and her voice oozed authority as she dipped her head. "It is an honour to meet you. My name is Rikke," she lifted her head, meeting my eyes and offering her hand. "The Jarl has given his consent that you accompany me to Rorikstead at once."

 _What_? Questions fired in my mind, but my tongue didn't seem to be able to wrap itself around any words as my memories of Helgen and her callous manner there assailed me.

Lydia gratefully spoke up, maintaining her protective pose. "We are in the midst of battle, defending our home. What reason could the Jarl have for sending us from it at a time like this?"

Nobody missed her pointed use of the word _us_.

The Legate lowered her hand slowly, crossing her brows as she glanced to Lydia. "You are aware that Giselle Passero has been captured by the Legion?" she asked directly.

The mere mention of my twin untied my tongue. "I saw the Legion capture her," I confirmed, drawing Legate Rikke's attention back to me. "Is she being taken to Solitude, to stand trial?" I tested.

Legate Rikke shook her head, oddly forthcoming as she added, "No, not until Whiterun is secured."

Once again, relief flooded me, though I felt conflicted in feeling it. My sister did not deserve anybody's compassion; least of all mine after all she had put me through, and all that she had ruined in her wake.

"She is being held in Rorikstead," the Legate continued, casting her gaze about, then with a grimace, side-stepped into Farengar's protective barrier. The moment she did, an arrow flew past our shield, making a _chink_ sound on the wall she had stood before, and clattering to the stone platform.

I stilled as I knit the threads of what she had told me together. "You..." I cautioned. "You want me to see her?"

"Put simply, the situation is this," Legate Rikke spoke swiftly, barely moving, her eyes still glued to the battlefield between the first and second gate. "Giselle has refused to talk to anybody, except you."

I arched an eyebrow, despite my heart racing at her words. "Isn't it a little unorthodox to indulge the request of a traitor?"

"Under the circumstances, we would allow it," the Legate cast a final glance to the scene below, then sighed, turning to face me. "I understand if you would rather not, however-"

" _No_ ," I cut in, perhaps a little _too_ hurriedly, for the Legate looked alarmed. I took a steadying breath before I added, "I would go with you. What do you want me to draw from her?"

Facing my sister, asking her my questions and demanding my answers was _finally_ within my grasp!

"Good," she nodded sternly. "We will discuss the particulars _en route_. The Jarl has requested that you remain in Rorikstead under our protection until the all-clear is given here. Each journey we make through the battlefield puts more lives at risk than anybody likes."

I inclined my head to her, agreeing. "Jarl Balgruuf knows best."

"Quarters and an honour guard have been prepared for you. You will be well protected under our watch."

"Honour guard?" Lydia relaxed her stance finally, taking a step back as she shouldered her bow and drew her sword instead. "Give Celeste her Hadvar, if you must assign anyone. That boy would battle an army with his bare fists before he would allow any harm to come to her."

 _Gods,_ I flushed. I didn't dare meet her or the Legate's eyes while my cheeks flamed crimson. Had she been taking lessons from Vilkas; was _Lydia_ really teasing me about this in front of an Imperial Legate?

 _Was_ Hadvar in Rorikstead, my heart fluttered unwittingly?

Legate Rikke's reply was just as hard as her previous, and I had to wonder how the woman could remain so disinterested, unless she had already known about our relationship, or truly cared nothing for such information. "It shall be considered," she quipped, "if such an assignment might benefit the Dragonborn's duty while she is among us. Though, I can promise you nothing," I could feel her eyes on me now, and made myself meet them, despite my blush. "He is no longer under my command, and Reidarsson's duties tend to extend a little further than your average officer, these days," she added.

Lydia waved her hand in a dismissive manner as she responded. "Of course; he is a busy man. And I will be her shadow at the garrison, no matter whom else you assign."

"And _you_ are welcome," the Legate replied swiftly, turning next on the mage. "Whereas _you_ are to take us beyond the fighting zone, and then return to Dragonsreach."

Farengar pursed his lips. "If the Jarl requests it..." he muttered stiffly.

"He does," Legate Rikke confirmed, then turned back to me. "The Stormcloaks will fall on us the moment we are off the platform. Mind you stay close to Farengar."

"I can fire," I spoke up swiftly, shrinking inwardly as the Legate cast me an incredulous, sideways look.

Indicating my bow with a wave of my hand, I added, "And, I can use the thu'um, if we need it. If they get too close to us."

"Yes, you can," the Legate murmured, dipping her head toward me once. I could only assume it was a signal of respect, but I felt that it was given begrudgingly.

Legate Rikke glanced away from me, her focus now on Lydia. "Our latest maps of the area suggest that if we double-back toward Bleakwind Basin, we will be out of the Stormcloak's range. Their efforts are entirely focused on these gates, so once we are out of their sights, they should not pursue us further."

Lydia frowned, shaking her head. "Bleakwind Basin is giant territory."

"I'd rather take my chances sneaking around a couple of giants than against whoever's hiding out at the Western Watchtower," the Legate said dismissively, and then motioned that we make our move.

"Let's go," she confirmed.

Once we had descended from the gatehouse, which due to the haste of our departure I managed with surprisingly little anxiety, I did as I had been told. I linked my arm through Farengar's offered elbow, and the mage both maintained our barrier, and lead the way. The Legate defended our path, breaking free of the ward at times to take care of any Stormcloaks who took an interest in us.

Most didn't. The majority of Stormcloaks seemed to have only one thing on their mind, as the Legate had said; breaking down the second gate barrier that was keeping them out of Whiterun.

I startled as a huge Stormcloak wielding a warhammer screamed and ran toward our bubble of protection. Lydia leapt out of the ward to meet him, and Legate Rikke joined her less than a second later, holding him off and screaming for my housecarl to return to me. She did at once; her sword raised and ready and her green eyes hard and watchful.

It mustn't have taken long for Legate Rikke to dispatch the man, for she was beside us again in no time as well. As much as the sight of the woman brought a thick fear of what had _almost_ happened in Helgen to my throat, I could not deny that she was an excellent fighter, and that I was grateful to be on her side.

From the farms beyond the first gate the roar of battle was but a muted echo, and those fighting were spread out and almost too easy to avoid, as they were focused on one another. The bark of the occasional Stormcloak order could now be heard, but their words were largely indiscernible. Before we had reached the boundary of the stables, we veered right, picking our way between rocks and bushes.

Farengar maintained his swift pace, and his ward. We left the mayhem of battle behind us, and Legate Rikke signalled toward a shallow cave within the boulders Whiterun had been built upon, calling for us to halt.

"We've done it?" I turned back toward the city, my eyes widening as I looked upon Whiterun from a new aspect. The city was in fire in several places – impact points reached by the Stormcloak's siege engine, no doubt. What would be left of our home, even if we won the day, I thought in distress? But before I could take in or think of it any more, I was hauled into the cave and out of Farengar's protective shield spell.

"We're away. You can lower that thing now," the Legate instructed Farengar as she righted me on my feet.

" _Finally_ ," he sighed, flicking his wrist to dispel the ward and leaning against the cold stone wall of the cave as he chugged back the contents of a magica potion.

The Legate cast the mage a frustrated glance. The look would have silenced any sensible person, but Farengar didn't seem to care.

Lydia stood at the edge of the cavern, her eyes watchful. "We're not far from the giant's camp. See the smoke over there?" she pointed. "I'm _fairly_ sure that is their bonfire."

The Legate stepped up beside her, resting her hands on her hips as she observed the scene for herself. "Yes, I see it. All right, from this point, we travel west. We stop for nothing and nobody. Farengar," she added over her shoulder. "You are dismissed. Return at once to Dragonsreach."

Farengar pushed himself off the wall. "You're welcome," he muttered in a disgruntled tone.

"Wait," I turned on him hastily, clasping my hand to his arm. The mage stilled, glancing at my hand, and all I could make out underneath the shadows of his hood was a slim frown.

"What is it?" he asked, though not confused, merely interested.

I hesitated; now was not the right time to bring up the Thalmor attack. "I will return to Whiterun, when this battle is won. I will call on you for a chat, on the day I return," I told him steadily.

Farengar's frown curled up into a smirk. "I would like that very much, Miss Passero."

"Thank you." Nodding in what I hoped was a significant manner, I lowered my hand and joined Lydia and Legate Rikke. "I am ready."

"Good," Legate Rikke sighed. "Because the sooner this is done, the safer _everyone_ will feel. I know she is your twin," she cast me a sideways glance. "But something about the little witch makes me question whether we should risk detaining her at all."

Her words bore such an edge that my stomach clenched in realisation; Giselle's final hours were upon her, and by doing as the Legion requested, I was shortening them.

I nodded, feeling pale as I drifted after the Legate.

 _She deserves whatever justice the Empire metes out to her,_ I told myself.

Telling myself and _convincing_ myself were two different matters, and I couldn't push aside the pool of guilt swelling within me, wondering if I might have prevented Giselle's defection, had I only been a better, kinder, more attentive sister.

 _She was the one who changed,_ I reminded myself somewhat sullenly; another matter which I questioned the truth of as we walked.

Our departure from the scene of the battle was silent, and we spoke only when it was necessary. The Legate directed Lydia and I around the giant's camp, and then across the plains. There were so many small hillocks and rises between us and Whiterun that it was impossible to see, let alone hear the war taking place for it any longer. Not knowing how the city was faring only deepened the nauseating pool of guilt-laden nerves in my belly as we drew further from it.

Silently, while the Stormcloak's eyes were focussed elsewhere, Legate Rikke, Lydia and I hastened to Rorikstead to face their captured Commander; my sister.

–

"There it is," the Legate motioned toward the horizon.

I looked up, assuming she meant Rorikstead was in sight, and could make out a cluster of low buildings in the distance, surrounded by plot after plot of farmland. The structures were too far away to determine much of their make up, but by the smudges of grey and brown, I could reason that it was a village of stone and thatch. The farms reached so far out from the hamlet that we were already nearing the boundary of one such plot. I looked down the rows and rows of plants in a muted wonder. What was being grown here? Potatoes, perhaps? I was no farmer, so could not truly say.

But my silent awe was not over the pristine crops laid out either side of us, but for the plain-clothed people I could see, toiling over the farms. The battle for Whiterun was taking place not half a day's walk from here, and there were people here, now, in a field, tending to potato plants.

As I shook my head and turned my eyes back to the road ahead, the Legate spoke up.

"Our encampment is beyond the rise, there," she shifted her hand in the direction of some sparsely-grassed hillocks. "And, once we reach it, I _must_ insist that you remain with your appointed guard, at _all_ times," the Legate cast me a hard look.

I glanced to Lydia, wondering if my housecarl had any answers for the Legate's manner, but she was nodding, agreeing with her it seemed, and grim-faced.

"Okay," I responded uncertainly. "Is there...any particular reason? I am...loyal to the Empire, you must realise that by now, despite what happened in Helgen..." I murmured.

"Best if we don't mention the H-word," the Legate grimaced now, then halted, turning to me and fixing me with a softer, verging on regretful look. I reasoned that it was all the apology I was likely to get regarding what she had ordered to be done that day.

"You must understand," she almost entreated me. "Word _will_ get out, about what occurred in Whiterun today, but that struggle is still being fought as we speak and the outcome is anybody's guess at this time. As such, many of our officers will not yet be enlightened, and will believe you to be the Stormcloaks' pet Dragonborn."

I shook my head, turning away as a flush of anger swelled within me. So, it was true, despite the assurances I had been fed that the Legion did not believe Giselle and Ulfric's lie.

 _But, she is right,_ I countered, taking a deep, steadying breath to calm myself. _Nobody will believe the Dragonborn is aligned with the Stormcloaks after today. There were too many witnesses._

The farm on the other side had the same crop growing, I noticed dully, for my eyes had been turned toward it. "You have captured Giselle," I murmured, watching as a girl as young as Lucia with a woven basket on her hip dipped down onto her knees to determinedly dig around in the dirt by the plants. "Are those stationed at the garrison not aware of who she really is?"

"Perhaps many are, by now," the Legate shrugged. "But, Lady Dragonborn, we are fighting a _war_ today. There are more urgent priorities for our officers to focus on than the status and allegiances of the Passero sisters," she added with a wry twist to her tone. "And a _lot_ of officers were harmed in that _disaster_ at Korvanjund, and lost to her attack on the Pale."

I remembered with a thud that Hadvar had been part of the former, as she had called it, _disaster_. What had truly happened while the two armies had fought to secure the artefact Hadvar had written to me of? How close had _he_ come to being taken from me that day, be it by my sister, or one the soldiers in her command?

"Can you tell me what she did at Korvanjund?" I dared to ask, though my words left my lips quietly, almost pleading.

Legate Rikke shook her head. "A dark tale for another time. My point is that until it _is_ common knowledge that Giselle Passero has been exposed and dealt with, _you_ must be careful of where you show your face. Now, as I told you earlier," she proceeded immediately. "Giselle has sullenly insisted that she will not speak to anybody but you."

"Why?" my voice cracked as I interjected, deeply confused. "She _must_ know that I am not her ally."

Lydia handed me her water skin in an offhand manner, and chimed in. "Perhaps she feels remorse and wishes to answer for her sins, before she is led to her trial?"

The Legate _hmphed_. "Unlikely. Even in chains and gauntlets to inhibit her magic, she wears a proud face as though she were the High Queen of Skyrim itself."

I hadn't needed the reminder that if Stormcloak won his war, she might well have been, had the Legion not captured her today. To direct both Legate Rikke and Lydia away from what I felt was approaching – talk of what would certainly be Giselle's impending execution – I spoke up with more purpose. "What do you want me to learn from her?"

The Legate nodded with appreciation, and went on to explain a number of uncertainties that the Imperial army had which Giselle might shed light upon; the name of a traitor in Markarth, the exact location of officers taken prisoner in Winterhold; details of a weapons shipment they believe to be moving about the Rift.

I nodded, finding a place in my roiling thoughts for the major points. "All right. Do I have anything to offer her in exchange for this information?" I posed flatly, uncertain as to whether I was actually bargaining or not.

Legate Rikke was quiet for longer than I expected her to be, and when I glanced at her, her stern eyes were fixed on Rorikstead before us.

"She will not tell us anything for free," I prompted.

The Legate nodded, tight-lipped as she replied, "I know. That is why I am delivering you to her, instead of fighting with my men right now back in Whiterun."

Lydia scoffed. " _Delivering-_?"

I shook my head swiftly at my housecarl. The Legate had not chosen the right word, but I had understood her meaning. My arrival _was_ the bargain to secure Giselle's secrets; she would receive no more from the Legion than that.

The Legate didn't bother confirming what I had deduced, and once again, we fell into silence. As we neared the village of Rorikstead, the Legate veered off the road and down a path that ran alongside two of the fields, directing us toward the knolls she had indicated earlier, behind which the Imperial Legion had set up its camp.

–

At first glance, my sister was a picture of defeat.

The tent that Giselle was being held in was heavily guarded. Five Legion officers stood outside of her prison, and four more were silently assembled inside of the canvas tent.

While I observed my sister, I couldn't help but wonder at this apparent danger she posed; the caution with which the Legion were detaining her. How could _she_ be of such importance to the Stormcloaks, and such a threat to the Legion? I had heard many stories of her exploits, and had tasted her reputation for myself during that fearsome and confusing evening at the Nightgate Inn, but... _was_ she really so terrible?

The tent was empty of other prisoners, and my sister sat in the centre of the large, canvas abode, secured to a heavy wooden chair by an arrangement of criss-crossed ropes and chains and surrounded by tall wooden stakes that had been sharpened at their tips. The tent was illuminated by only two lanterns, both placed on a table by the far wall, but in the flickering light I could still make out that her head was downturned, her Stormcloak armour was dishevelled and her hair was a tangled mess of curls.

 _To look more like you,_ I prodded my sluggish thoughts.

I stood in the entryway taking in the sight of her with my honour guard of three Legion officers and Lydia behind me. A strange sense of emptiness overcame me the longer I remained and looked. I had not properly seen my sister since the day she had departed for Wayrest, and I recalled her vigour that day, her happiness as she had hugged me and expressed how relieved she was to be returning to her studies.

 _Studies._ Crossing my brows at her, and wondering where the boat she had boarded had _really_ taken her, I glanced down and noticed the large metal gauntlets encasing both of her hands and wrists. The Legate had told me that they were preventing her from accessing her magic with gauntlets; these must have been the means to accomplish it.

One of my guards shuffled on the hard-packed dirt, and the sound was enough to alert the four guards within the tent of our arrival. When they moved, my sister lifted her head slightly, though her shoulders remained slumped.

Our eyes met. Whatever her guards said to me, I didn't hear. Her face mirrored mine; not only in appearance, but expression; entirely devoid of emotion.

Lydia spoke up from behind me; thanking and dismissing the guards, I thought. As they filed out, I felt a gentle, but somewhat shaking hand tentatively land on my arm to direct me forward; Lydia again. The shuffle of booted feet against the earth came to my ears. I stepped inside, barely aware of the crossover from the clear brightness of the afternoon into Giselle's shadowed prison.

As we drew nearer and I was able to make out more and more of my sister, I began to feel again. The first emotion was pain; the deep, sea-blue of her eyes reminded me of my father. _Our_ father.

I felt as though I hadn't outwardly reacted, but I must have betrayed myself somehow. Giselle glanced away from me, lifting her head and sitting straighter as she frowned at my entourage.

" _You_ may leave," she uttered to them; a steady and authoritative command. "I will speak only to my sister."

The sound of her voice broke the spell of remorse that had taken hold of me; incredulity gushed through me in its place. With a light, disbelieving huff, I glanced to Lydia.

"We are going nowhere," Lydia growled; her green eyes narrowed and fixed on my sister. "You are in _no_ position to make demands."

" _All_ of you go, then," Giselle somehow made her snide remark sound _lofty_.

My honour guard moved to the seats that had previously been occupied by the Legionnaires watching over Giselle, seemingly unaffected by her orders, though I caught one of them sending her a dark look as he lowered himself onto the chair by the wall.

I stood before my sister's wooden cage, digging my fingernails into my palms as the incredulity was overtaken by a steadily boiling rage, fuelled by her pompous attitude. A desire to understand what had possessed her to do what she had done consumed all else.

 _If she won't talk, you'll never know._

"It's all right," I spoke up quietly, my voice trembling with restraint. Giselle's eyes flickered back to me, and I maintained her gaze, though I spoke to my guards. "Wait outside for me. I will not be long."

There was no protest from the Legion officers; they must have been ordered to _obey_ me, I realised as they rose and filed out of the tent. When only Lydia and I remained, I turned to my housecarl, and lay my hand on her arm to get her attention.

"Please," I whispered to her.

Lydia's eyes were still fixed on Giselle; dangerous and accusing, but then she glanced swiftly to me. I expected a protest, or a look of betrayal, but she only gave me a small, barely perceptible nod then turned on her heels, exiting the tent with a stiffness about her manner that I had never seen.

"They _can_ be taught," Giselle muttered in an undertone.

With nothing and nobody remaining to hold Giselle's tongue any longer, I turned back on her and stepped closer to her cage.

Giselle watched my approach, though her eyes flickered to the open door flap of the tent a few times as I did.

She said and did nothing else until I halted, a hands-span from the wooden spikes surrounding her.

"All right, Giselle. I'm here, as you requested," I managed cooly, grateful that my voice no longer shook. I could do this. A thick haze seemed to have gathered in my mind, for the moment disconnecting me from what was occurring.

My sister bore my hard gaze for a second longer, and I wondered what it was that she saw in me; what exactly she was looking for? Did she believe me as changed as she was? Did she fear the dragon within, whom she'd witnessed defending the gates of Whiterun that morning?

She lowered her eyes.

"Thank the _Gods_ , you came," she whispered, her voice quivering as she spoke.

I frowned at her tone, then was immediately put on guard as she glanced up hurriedly; her blue eyes imploring as a look of fear emerged on her face.

"Sister," she pleaded, holding her gauntleted hands out to me. "Loosen these. Please," her voice cracked, thick with tears. "I won't break out until later tonight. They won't know it was you."

I raised my eyebrows, tearing my eyes off her to steady my response. "You heard my housecarl. You are in no position to make demands," I replied as emotionlessly as I could manage.

Giselle _sobbed_ in reply. I glanced back swiftly, surprised by this display from my usually uptight and reserved sister. She had lowered her head again, perhaps so that I wouldn't be able to tell that she was faking her tears.

 _It doesn't matter,_ I told myself hurriedly, furiously, despite the prickle of uncertainty that was crawling along the back of my neck. _She is desperate, and believes you to be weak, believes that she can trick you. She is a traitor._

"You can drop the act," I murmured quietly, sighing as I retrieved a chair and placed it opposite her, before her bars. I sat, feeling that her eyes were on me again as I settled, and took my time to adjust my bow so that it rested more comfortably on my shoulder.

I looked back to my sister; our eyes level now. "You have been lying to everybody for so long that it appears to have become natural for you to do so," I tried to dispel the passion from my tone, but it seemed that I couldn't prevent my words from twisting into a snark. "But you cannot lie to _me_."

"No – _please_. I'm _not_ lying," Giselle hushed, shaking her head; a small, hurried, panicked motion. Her eyes were wide, making her appear smaller and younger than she was. "I _wanted_ to go to Wayrest."

"Just _stop_ ," I closed my eyes, for it was impossible to ignore the vulnerability of one who I had loved for so long, and it infuriated me all the more to know that she _knew_ this; knew how to affect me.

"I know _everything_ ," I bit out as I clenched my teeth. "You have been allied with Ulfric Stormcloak – no," my eyes flew open, flashing in accusation; " _sleeping_ with Ulfric Stormcloak – since you left Solitude for Winterhold over three years ago. How does that even _work_ , Giselle?" I fired, gaining timbre as my sister shrank back. "He's old enough to be your _father_! Who, I might remind you, is _dead_ because of you?!"

Giselle's lower lip trembled and she closed her eyes swiftly. Tears leaked out from the corners, trailing slowly down her cheeks; their paths shimmering briefly in the lantern light.

I wanted to shake her, to slap her; to snap her out of this facade so we could argue properly. If she had not been behind bars and out of reach, I might have done, for her feigned remorse was _infuriating_. How could she _dare_ appeal to me in this manner, when underneath the mask of timidity and grief lay the blackened heart of a _snake_ who had lied and plotted and hunted and _murdered_ her way into the arms of our enemy?

There were so many things that I could have said to her but I remained silent while she cried, waiting for her to begin her attempts to justify her actions. They would come, I reasoned, and while I waited I took the deep, slow breaths of my bard's training in an effort to regain a sense of calm. If I could not remain calm, then I could not do this job; do what the Legion had asked of me.

My sister wept quietly for a few more minutes, but then through a shuddering breath, finally replied. "You don't understand," she almost whispered. "You _can't_ understand what it was like," she opened her eyes, still pooled with tears and puffy around the edges. "I was so young, and he is _so_ strong, Celeste. He has more power and influence than anybody realises, and he's _smart_ ," she blinked slowly; visibly sinking in defeat.

I watched her closely and said nothing, pushing down the part of my soul that wanted to step through the wooden barrier between us and _comfort_ the woman before me.

With another shuddering breath, she leaned forward a little; her voice even softer. "He has plans for us, _both_ of us, after he wins this war."

I bit my tongue as my gaze narrowed and the prickle of sympathy I had felt fled. Okay. Now she was talking; albeit not about what the Legion wished to know. But surely, anything of Ulfric's plans would be welcomed.

Again, I waited, arching a single eyebrow when she sat back with a huff at my lack of reply. Her eyes expressed disbelief and betrayal, and the look nearly made me _FUS_ her across the room.

 _Use FUS and she escapes,_ I tempered myself quickly. _And, perhaps that is her plan. Calm down._

I made myself reply to her, when I felt steady enough to do so. "Tell me of these plans Stormcloak has for us."

Giselle held her gauntleted hands out again, begging, "Loosen my binds, and I'll tell you _everything_."

My reply was another glare, which I maintained until my sister sank back in her chair and lowered her eyes.

Whether she was telling the whole truth, or executing an elaborate script devised to trap me, it truly did not matter, I realised. And I voiced my realisation to her in a low, steady tone.

"This is your fault, Giselle," I stared at her, willing her to look up again. "Because of you – be it your disloyalty, or your cowardice – Skyrim is at war. Do you understand how many people are _dead_ because of you?" I asked. "Our parents, the High King, Ralof-"

 _This_ got her attention; her eyes snapped to me, suddenly as hard and sharp as a knife.

"What do _you_ know of _Ralof_?" she spat.

Sitting back a little in my chair, I frowned at her sudden ferocity. My heart was simultaneously satisfied, and disappointed, by her outburst.

 _You see? It was all an act. Here is the viper; the woman half of Skyrim fears._

I made myself answer her. "I know that he was a good man before you and Stormcloak fed him and his kind enough lies to convince them to take up arms against their own _kin_."

Giselle lifted her head higher, laughing weakly to the roof. "You know _nothing_. I am such a _fool_ to assume you could-"

"You _are_ a fool," I cut her off sternly. "And you are wasting time, continually reminding everybody within hearing range of the fact," I stood, motioning toward the exit. "I left my people – in the midst of _battle_ , to come to you, and for _what_?" I glanced her up and down, feeling disgusted. "This – this pathetic entreaty from a murderess-"

"He _killed_ our _mother_ ," Giselle cut me off loudly.

I hesitated, biting my tongue to again stop myself from using the thu'um on her. I closed my eyes; desperate to regain control of my senses before I unwittingly did exactly as she wished. "I don't believe you."

"It is the truth," Giselle's voice was pained. "Her death was not part of the plan. Ralof _killed_ her, while they were escaping. Ulfric told me and... _gave_ him to me..."

I opened my eyes as she left the rest unsaid; glared into my sister's troubled soul. "And our father, who as Thane to the High King would have been considered your _enemy_?" my voice was laced in ice. "Did you _calmly_ plan his death in one of your war meetings?"

"No!" Giselle insisted, sounding horrified.

"I was at the Blue Palace too, that day – was my _death_ part of the plan?" I spoke quickly, standing tall, clenching my fists as I bore down on her. The memory of Giselle sweeping into the Blue Palace to retrieve me after the attack; what I had taken for shock and grief on her features; the words she had spoken to me – all pressed on me in that second while she looked up through her tangle of dark curls with tear-filled distress in her eyes.

" _No_ ," she whispered, shaking her head minutely. "Why do you think I fought so hard to go with you to the palace? Why do you think I came as soon as I could?" she continued in a quiet, horrified voice. "My presence would have _prevented_ any harm from coming to father, and to you-!"

"Stop _lying_!" I cried; the tether that had been supporting what remained of my calm snapping. I grasped the bars that separated me from my sister, my knuckles turning white as splinters of wood dug into my palms.

"What do you think of me?" Giselle's voice rose with an audible tremor, her eyes still wide and searching; her brows crossed in confusion. "Do you _honestly_ believe _me_ capable of plotting our parent's _murders_? Do you detest me _that_ much-"

"Don't," I grated, cutting her off through a mouthful of clenched teeth. "Another word appealing to our _connection_ and I will leave this tent and forget you," I threatened, meaning every word I spoke. Giselle sat back a little, her eyes flitting over me with actual _worry._

"For months," I made myself continue speaking, "you have pretended to _be_ me and made the whole of Skyrim fear the name Passero," I grated. " _You_ are responsible for your actions, Giselle. _You_ plunged Skyrim into civil war, and have wreaked havoc on my life and the lives of those I love ever since," I laughed; a cynical bark. "You _hunted_ me, while I _slept_ , as though I were nothing more than a skeever to be trapped! Why, just this morning you shot balls of fire _directly at me_ as you tried _and failed_ to Shout in the language of the dragons! And you expect me not only to listen, but _sympathise_ with you?"

Giselle's voice wavered as she replied quietly, "I was under orders-"

"Why?" I screamed. "What do you owe _Stormcloak_ that could make you turn on your family like this?"

Giselle regarded me from under her messy hair, and then lowered her eyes to her gauntleted hands, now resting on her lap.

My breaths came hard and fast as though I had been running, and I detangled my hands from the wooden stakes so I could sit again. Once I had settled, I watched and waited for her to reply.

Again, her words were soft, but they were steadier than they had been before; more resolved. "All I have done, all I have endured," her voice thickened with tears, "has been for the good of _Tamriel_."

 _All she has endured?!_ I bit my tongue to keep from snapping a retort, for I felt that there was more to come.

There was. Giselle looked up; the blueness in her eyes bright. "You can't understand, because you were _handed_ your birthright by one of the Divines, with no explanation to accompany it."

The corner of my mouth twitched as she bore my unimpressed gaze. "You've done all of this for _fame_?" I confirmed softly, incredulously.

"No," Giselle closed her eyes, laughing bleakly as another tear slipped from her eye and trailed down her wet cheek.

I couldn't help but continue along this path, "You have destroyed our family and started a _war_ to satisfy your cravings for _status_ , and have attached yourself to one of the most dangerously volatile men in Skyrim to achieve it?" I uttered in a low growl.

Giselle looked up in horror, shaking her head again as her tears resumed falling. "You cannot be so impossibly naïve, Celeste! _Nothing_ could have prevented this war – and it has occurred _because_ you and I exist. Ulfric opened my eyes to the truth, and his actions now pave the way for _us_. _Both_ of us! You're the _Dragonborn,_ Celeste!" she added somewhat desperately; as though this explained everything.

I threw her a disgruntled and disappointed look as I suddenly wished that Vilkas had come with me, so that he might determine if a single word she had uttered contained a shred of truth. "That I can understand the language of the dragons and use the thu'um is _irrelevant_ to your actions and _Ulfric's_ personal quest for glory, and I will not be drawn into it," I drawled.

Giselle closed her eyes, issuing yet another a small laugh as she shook her head. "You don't understand what it means to be Dragonborn, then," she settled, almost to herself. "But Ulfric – he _does_ ," she opened her eyes, fixing me with a bright, verging on fanatical look. "He knows why this is happening to you – and not just the hearsay and legends that the plebs have been fed all their lives. He has archivists, and documents to back his claims – _he_ understands why you were made Dragonborn by Akatosh."

She paused, perhaps expecting me to relent or at least reply to her.

I gave her no such satisfaction; my eyes ever watchful of her next move. She was baiting me yet again; of this I was certain.

Giselle continued, smiling as she added. "Don't you understand? He can _teach_ you as he's taught me; he can make you ready for what you must face. I was asked to bring you to him so that he could explain-"

"Funny," I grit my teeth, unable to stop myself from cutting her off any longer. "He mentioned _none_ of this to me when I stood before him in Windhelm a week ago. In fact," I took a deep breath, glancing away from Giselle. "He ordered that I leave before he set his guards on me."

I only heard Giselle's laugh this time; another light, familiar, and emotion-filled breath. "You appeared before him as the Thane of Whiterun with a message from one whom he had believed to be his ally."

"Allies don't wage war on one another," I bit out.

"And he may have answers for you," Giselle continued as though I had not interrupted her, "but he is also a stubborn, proud, _infuriating_ fool, sometimes. If I had been there, the meeting would have gone _very_ differently."

"You hold such influence over him, do you?" I scathed. "When I walked into this tent, you implied that he had forced you into his schemes _and_ his bed, under duress."

Giselle smiled patiently, _fondly_. "I didn't say that."

"Then, what _did_ you mean?" I asked, my tone infused with darkness; her words and manner making my stomach twist; nauseated to learn that she _did_ feel affection for the brute.

Her maddening, warm smile persisted as she replied. "I know his nature, to his core," she glanced up to me, her expression more serene than it had been for our entire audience. "Which is why you _must_ loosen my binds. I _must_ go back to him, and keep him on track. I would ask you to come with me, but I know that you won't," she glanced down for a moment, then turned her eyes up to observe me through her lashes. "But I believe that you _will_ , in your own time, now," she murmured knowingly. "When you are ready to understand this gift you have been given," my sister shrugged, "come to Windhelm. Give Ulfric a chance. We will _welcome_ you, and you will finally understand why events _had_ to play out this way-"

"Stop," I gasped out the word, alarmed to find that I was close to tears. I shook my head, trying to cast off the unwanted emotions. "I will _never_ come to Windhelm as your ally. I will _never_ swallow Ulfric's lies, _or_ yours," I grated thickly. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I stood and took a step back from my sister's cage, watchful as her eyes flickered over me in weary disappointment.

"If you will not tell me what Ulfric has explained to you, here and now," I raised my eyebrows at her, "then I must assume as I have always done; that you intend to capture me, only to silence me."

" _Celeste_ ," Giselle implored. "You are not thinking-"

"Enough," I held my hand up, taking another step away and closing my eyes tightly; pushing the tears and all she had said back for a moment longer so I could finish this. "There will be no returning to Stormcloak. The Legion has you now. You will be taken to Solitude, where you will stand trial for all you have done," my voice trembled as my restrained anguish threatened to topple me. "You will be executed for treason and murder, and then I _will_ visit you," I turned, marching toward the exit, "but only to scratch the name Passero from your tomb, for you do not deserve to bear it."

"Don't go!" Giselle hushed desperately. " _Please_! Don't let them _kill_ me – I'm your _sister_ for Shor's sake!"

The words _I have no sister_ stuck in my throat as I bolted out of the tent, and burst into tears.

* * *

 _A/n: Giselle is a frustrating and infuriating woman and she gave both Celeste and I absolute **hell** in this chapter. Apologies for the shorter length._


	43. Where You Want To Be

_Chapter 43: Where You Want To Be_

As the sun sank over a glowing horizon, Lydia and my Legion honour guard escorted me to my quarters, past rows and rows of identical stiff canvas tents; their walls snapping in the dry, chilly afternoon breeze.

In truth I remembered little of the rush to my tent, and saw even less of it through the sting of tears and glare of the setting sun. Once at the entrance to my temporary abode, I barely glanced over the contents. It was the same size as Giselle's prison, but neat, orderly, and perfunctory, as one would expect of a soldier of the Empire's living space, containing a small table, several chairs, a closed chest near the back, and a bedroll behind a wood and canvas screen.

My housecarl guided me into the tent. She spoke in a bright voice, perhaps for the benefit of my guards, but I missed whatever it was she said. I let her direct me as I noted a change in lighting and temperature; the material door and window flaps were tied closed and lanterns were lit, and the bitterly cold wind no longer tried to claw its way to my bones. Once I was sat at the table, I turned my eyes down, blinking at my small, shaking hands. Thick splinters of wood stuck out of the pale flesh from where I had gripped Giselle's bars, but I didn't feel them.

It was as though I couldn't feel anything beyond the adrenaline of the interview and the raw misery now coursing through my veins in discovering that my sister _hadn't_ been trying to trick or trap me. She hadn't been brainwashed or bribed to fight for Ulfric or to share his bed. She was devoted to him, and she had believed every word she had said to me. She truly believed that what she and Ulfric had done was for the _greater good_.

 _As Ulfric does_ , I tormented myself. I should have been relieved that the Legion had finally caught my sister, because if she remained with Ulfric Stormcloak, together they might win their war.

But this feeling; this was certainly not relief. Clenching my eyes closed tightly to stall a fresh wave of grief swelling on my tide of emotions, I was only then aware that Lydia and my guards were still speaking to each other.

I made myself listen, but was removed from their conversation; their voices strange echoes drifting to me as though through water.

"- should the battle be won tonight – and our most recent intelligence suggest it _shall_ be – she will be moved with the rest of the prisoners, probably at dawn."

"Yes, that is standard procedure, and she will not be exempt. We must go back soon and resume questioning before we lose our only chance to make some good of the false Dragonborn's reign of terror."

"Lady Dragonborn is in _shock_ , Woodharth – we can't ask her to face her sister again tonight."

"Giselle won't speak to anybody else."

"It seemed she didn't speak much sense as it was."

"The Legate will still need to hear the full of what occurred, particularly if we do not intend on going back. Shall we advise her that questioning has been completed, Lady Lydia?"

"Can we – just – give her a few minutes?" my housecarl replied in a tight, hushed voice. " _Please_."

A _clunk_ of something solid being placed on the table before me came to my ears, and then a hand was on my shoulder; gentle and consoling. The chair next to me scraped against the hard-packed dirt floor before it was filled by a sighing occupant.

"Little one," it was Lydia, of course, "drink this. I know, I know!" she added swiftly when I glanced to her with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Bards don't drink. But a _sip_ can't hurt, can it?"

I shook my head dully. "We drink. We just...don't drink much," my voice was rough, crackling with unspent emotion, and in this state I wondered if I might ever sing again; I certainly felt as though my will to do so had fled. "In excess, drink damages our...vocal chords and..." I trailed off, for the excuses did not matter.

"Then, take some," my housecarl's head tilted as she offered me a smile. "It might help to distract you from everything that I _know_ is going around in that head of yours," she urged softly.

I gave in because it was easier to do what others asked of me than to make decisions for myself. Nodding and reaching for the tankard – my hand was still shaking – I gingerly lifted it and stared at the contents. Mead, aqueously reflecting the lantern-light, giving it the appearance of liquid gold.

 _The last time you drank mead, you were with Kodlak._

I frowned at the drink, turning it around in the tankard so it caught more of the light. There was something soothing and disconnecting about the pools of light and darkness; it was like a tiny aurora in my hand.

 _Indeed we cannot leave them; for they will forever remain in our hearts and minds, for as long as we live and breathe._

His toast as we had drank to my joining the Companions shifted through me, and I nodded with resolution, lifting the tankard to my lips and taking a draught. It wasn't as sweet or thick as Kodlak's mead, but then it wasn't anywhere near as strong either, though it did leave a trail of warmth in my mouth and throat as I swallowed it.

"Good," Lydia sounded relieved. "Are you hungry?" she rose.

I shook my head, but she went anyway and spoke quietly to one of the guards to arrange for food to be brought.

I glanced up to the three guards, wondering why they were clustered just inside of the closed door flap. Did they need to be invited in? What exactly _were_ their duties?

I watched as one, the Imperial male of the group, shifted the canvas door aside and left under Lydia's instructions. Then I spoke to the remaining two.

"What are your names?" I asked quietly.

The Nord man and woman snapped to attention.

"Captain Elsga Mjardott, ma'am, at your service."

"Dathies, ma'am. Dathies Woodharth. Officer of the 105th."

Lydia had been moving back to her seat as they had announced themselves, and raised an amused eyebrow at me that the pair couldn't see.

Amusement couldn't reach me yet, and their stiffness was merely a sign of respect and office. I glanced from her hastily and waved toward the chairs around me. "Won't you sit? Have a drink, if you like?" I wrinkled my nose at the tankard Lydia had brought. "There's no use in just _standing_ there."

The Legionnaires stepped forward, but both shook their heads in unison.

"Thank you Lady Dragonborn, but we are on duty," Elsga replied for them both.

"Oh," my gaze drifted back toward my splinter-filled hands on my lap. "Of course," I murmured flatly. "I suppose we will remain here in silence then, until the battle for Whiterun has been won for us."

I think the pair withdrew to stand either side of the door flap. A small, earnest voice in my mind berated me for being so rude and begged me to apologise to them. It was a simple matter to smother the entreaty.

"Celeste," Lydia drew my attention to her. She smiled ruefully and hesitated before adding, "We can't just sit here, I'm afraid. I know that you would rather forget what just happened, but there are people who will want you to relate every detail of what just occurred to them soon."

I groaned, resting my forehead on the table with a soft _thunk_.

"There is an alternative," Lydia spoke up, loud and pointed to be heard over my disgruntled noise. "You can repeat it once, to me, now, and perhaps Elsga or Dathies might scribe all you say. Then you may forget it, or deal with it, or do whatever you wish with the memories and the information she has given you," Lydia said in an offhand way. Her tone darkened, as she added, "and _I_ will relay your audience to those who ask for what has passed."

I glanced up, resting my chin on the tabletop as I observed her. "You would make my report to the Legate?"

Lydia smirked and nodded her head, reaching for my hand. "What are housecarls for?"

Her casual manner, contrasting with a determined glint in her emerald eyes made me well up with tears again, though I managed to hold them back. I darted forward, throwing my arms around her. "You are too good for me, do you know that?"

"Oh, little one," Lydia soothed, laughing softly as she held me. "You still don't understand the lengths that those who love you will go to, to relieve some of this mighty weight from your shoulders?"

Clenching my eyes closed tighter to further stave off my emotions, I swallowed thickly. "I don't understand what she told me," I made myself take a calming breath, and another. Lydia was doing this for me; I would need to reign in my emotions in for her.

"I would wager that not many _will_ ," Lydia countered. "But we should still document it, while it is fresh in your mind."

"No, I mean," I shook my head, trying to make sense of what I was trying to say. "She told me that Stormcloak... _knows_ why I have been made Dragonborn."

Easing back slowly, Lydia rested her hands on my shoulders; her brows furrowed slightly. "Why don't we start at the beginning?" she posed. "Captain Mjardott, could you find some paper and something to write with? Perhaps we might make some sense of what Giselle said, together."

I watched as the Captain stepped across the room and looked through the chest by the wall, then returned with a notebook and some pieces of charcoal, and took a seat across from us at the table. "Ready when you are," Elsga announced.

Lydia had extracted herself from me fully, and now merely held one of my hands in both of hers with my palm facing up.

"Thank you," Lydia replied to the Captain. "Now, my Thane. When _you_ are ready, we will hear what you would tell us."

A tiny burst of unexpected pain in my hand made me jump, and also managed to clear some of the fog from my mind. I stared down at the source as another sharp tug jolted through me. Lydia was swiftly withdrawing the splinters I had gained from Giselle's prison bars.

"Sorry," Lydia murmured, briefly glancing up under her lashes. "It needs to be done. And, perhaps it will help to distract you from what you are recalling?"

Closing my eyes, I nodded and took a few more steadying breaths, suppressing my reactive startle when I felt the next tug of the tiny piece of wood being drawn from my palm.

Lydia was right; it _was_ a good distraction.

I opened my eyes, faced Captain Mjardott, and gave my report.

–

While I talked, the Captain scratched away in the notebook and Officer Woodharth simply stood by the table and listened, frowning but never interrupting me.

Lydia spoke sometimes, often asking me to repeat something I had said. I assumed that she was trying to commit as much of the tale to memory as she could for future use. I did as she asked, as dispassionately as I could, watching her as she crossed her brows and continued to withdraw splinters from my hands.

The third member of my honour guard returned part way through my speech, his arms laden with a tray of food. He took an immediate interest in what we were doing, but said nothing; silently placing the food tray on the table, then joining Dathies.

Still tending to my hands, Lydia reached forward, grabbed an apple, and passed it to me, without even looking at me.

I accepted it, staring at the shiny, green-skinned fruit, turning it in the hand she had finished with before the Imperial guard had arrived. "I'm not hungry," I reminded her.

Lydia flicked me a frown as she grabbed another from the platter and took a noisy, crunching, almost pointed bite out of it. "Humour me," she said through a mouthful of apple, placing it on the table as she turned her eyes back to her work.

I rolled my eyes, but bit into the apple, because it felt as though she would pester me about it until I did otherwise.

Of course, Lydia knew what she was doing. She had seemed to know what she was doing this entire time; distracting me by all means and methods available to her. Recalling the dialogue that had passed between my twin and I came easier with Lydia's attentions to my palm, and a little food and mead in my stomach.

What they didn't provide was answers to the questions my sister's utterances had dredged up, but regardless; the tale had to be completed, so that others might be able to make sense of it.

Once the apple, my hands and the report were all finished, with Lydia's faultless and clever efforts to keep me from sinking back into sullen misery, my mood lifted and the painful tightness gripping my heart seemed to slowly unclench. Some objectivity even returned when a noisy cheer from outside came to us, muted through the canvas.

"Whiterun is won!" the cry came. "The Stormcloaks have issued a retreat!"

I couldn't suppress my relieved smile.

"It's over?" Lydia rose immediately, charging to the door flap and throwing it open; my honour guards on her tail, making similar exclamations and hurrying to see what was happening for themselves.

I sank back in my seat and let out a huge sigh as I looked up to the flat, featureless canvas roof of my quarters.

 _It_ _is_ _over. You have a home to return to._

With my emotions so recently, rawly tapped, I found myself close to tears very suddenly.

"Celeste!" a voice called from outside. It was not Lydia or my guards, but another voice; one dearly beloved to me.

My eyes widened as I dashed my unspent tears with my fingers and sat straighter at once; my attention snapping to the entrance where I saw a quickly-approaching Legion officer through the gloom of evening. "Hadvar?!"

He strode straight past my entourage and into my quarters, his face a mask of concern. "I came as soon as I could," he muttered in an apologetic tone.

I stood, hastily putting my apple core down, which I had been fidgeting with prior. "But, it's all right, the battle is – _ah_!" I cried out as Hadvar threw his arms around me, enclosing me in a fierce embrace the moment I was within reach.

He held me to his chest; his other arm secured around my waist. "Thank the _Eight_ , you are safe," he sighed into my hair.

"Of _course_ I'm safe," I shuffled so I could move my arms from where they had been trapped between us. "Lydia and the Legion have been looking after me here, and Farengar shielded me during – no. Wait."

I had never truly been in danger, while many had put there lives at risk for me. "More importantly," I drew back only far enough to meet his stormy-grey eyes, " _Whiterun_ is safe."

"But, your sister," Hadvar continued in a rush; his expression still marred by distress. "They should never have asked you to question her – you're _not_ a soldier to follow the orders of the army. When I heard-"

"I _wanted_ to face her," I explained plainly. "And Giselle..." my breath shuddered. "It was very...strange," I settled quietly, baffled by the lack of distress I felt this time in thinking on it; the clarity that had been out of reach while I had been taking part in the events.

Lydia's insistence to document the exchange seemed to have been a cathartic exercise for me, and from within the disconnected state I now found myself in, I understood that before I had faced Giselle, I had known that the confrontation would be heart-wrenching. I had been preparing myself from the moment I had heard of her allegiance to Stormcloak. My tears; my immediate response had certainly been borne of reactionary frustration to what she had said, but now, even if she had only given me more questions; now that the shock had abated, I felt a semblance of obscure, however disappointed, closure. I had been able to face her before I travelled to the Greybeards' eyrie to begin my Dragonborn training.

"All right, then," his tone related anything but acceptance. With a gentle tug, Hadvar closed the space between us again, strengthening his hold on me, grasping my armour as though even pressed against him I wasn't close enough. "I hope that you obtained some answers from her."

I closed my eyes, winding my arms around him as I settled more comfortably on his chest, and I listened to the beat of his heart through his armour. "Not exactly," I huffed quietly.

I felt him tense, and after a pause he hazarded, "She is being transported at dawn. If we return to her now-"

" _No_ ," I stressed, shaking my head firmly and refusing to open my eyes. "I am very comfortable here," I muttered.

Hadvar let out a breath of air that might have been a perplexed laugh; his chest rising and falling in time with the sound.

"And with Hadvar you shall stay," Lydia's voice came to me, close by my side. "But, I shall take my leave."

I opened my eyes; turned my head to face my housecarl, but was reluctant to let go of Hadvar. I frowned at her. " _Leave_? Where are you going?"

Lydia's expression was flat but she glowered before she turned away. "To pay a visit to your sister."

"Don't you _dare_ ," I broke free and stumbled toward her, reaching out and clasping her arm before she could exit the tent. She stopped and looked at me patiently, but there was dark resolution in her eyes that I knew I would not be able to shift.

"I...don't want you anywhere near her," I faltered, the dangerous air about her almost tangible. "Giselle will give you nothing of use, and only bring you pain with her blind fanaticism," I implored.

Lydia reached over and gently detangled my fingers from her arm. "I understand why this might trouble you," she sounded tranquil, despite the sharp glint to her eyes. "But you _must_ let me do this. I have wanted to stand before your sister for as long as you have. And if I am able to draw anything of use to the Legion from her; so be it," she shrugged.

"And if she won't talk?" I fired back. "Will _you_ make her?"

Lydia pursed her lips and didn't answer me directly. The hard edge to her gaze softened, and she looked almost apologetic before she replied with, "Don't leave Rorikstead without me, okay? We'll go home together, when this is done."

" _Lydia_ ," I pleaded quietly as she strode toward the exit. The entire situation was ridiculous, pointless, not to mention dangerous. Giselle would not speak to her, and Lydia would not resort to...alternative methods. Would she? No. Of course she wouldn't. This was _Lydia_ , not some Imperial torturer.

Lydia glanced back over her shoulder. "Yes, my Thane?" she asked simply, softly.

I stood motionless, watching her as I searched for what I wanted to say; both of us painfully aware that I could, if I wished, order her to stay. _But if Lydia succeeds,_ my mind prodded, _it may_ _ **prevent**_ _the Legion from extracting information from Giselle by...those alternative methods_.

The idea was countered at once by a scoff. _After everything she has done, you wish to_ _ **protect**_ _her from the fate she has created?_

I tried to swat the conflict away, and I could not answer my question truthfully, at this time.

"Don't get too close to her," I advised hurriedly. "And don't..." my shoulders sank in defeat. "Please, don't let her words sting you..."

 _...as they did me._

Lydia promised she wouldn't, and left. I watched the canvas door flap in a breeze that I didn't feel from within the tent. One of the guards shifted forward to secure the door toggles, and I heard Hadvar approach me.

He rested an arm across my shoulders. "Lydia knows what she's doing," he assured quietly.

I nodded dimly, my eyes still on the exit. _I thought I knew what I was doing, too._

 _Lydia is older than you, more professional than you, and both a warrior and a mother,_ my internal dialogue listed her strengths and weighed them against me. _She knows everything that Giselle told you, so none of it can be used against her, to hurt or surprise her. Her chances of obtaining anything useful are infinitely better than yours ever were._

The thought convinced me to trust my housecarl's choice. I wasn't happy about my beloved Lydia facing my sister in any capacity, but she was right; she wanted, _needed_ to stand before Giselle as much as I had.

"That she does," I answered finally, tearing my eyes from the closed tent flap. I looked up to Hadvar from where I was nestled under his wing.

He turned to look down at me at the same time. While his eyes seemed largely guarded, masking the frustration he had touched upon earlier, his patient, supportive smile warmed me.

 _Here he is,_ I told myself dumbly as my own small, relieved smile unwittingly grew and the walls of fatigue, grief and fear continued to melt and thin within me. For a moment I wondered why I continued to be bemused by his presence, but was able to swiftly validate the reaction; I was used to _referring_ to Hadvar, of speaking of him to others and longing for his company, not actually standing next to and being held by him. I could count the number of times we had held one another on my hands.

One of my honour guard shuffling around the table, helping themselves to some food perhaps, broke through my trance, and I glanced toward them, duly reminded that Hadvar and I were _not_ alone, and we certainly had not found each other in the brightest of circumstances, whether the battle for Whiterun was over or not. Just standing here and smiling goofily at him was idiotic.

I cleared my throat, took Hadvar's hand and led him to the table. "Where have you been all day?" I asked, longing to talk, but of anything except _my_ day.

Hadvar hesitated before casting a quick look my honour guard's way, and when he glanced back to me a secret smile was on his lips. "That would be _classified_ information, Lady Dragonborn," his voice contained a trace of a smirk.

"Ah," I couldn't stop a grin from surfacing, and turned my eyes down toward the hard-packed floor to mask my amusement. "But of course it is," I laughed to the ground, pulling a chair out with the intention of sitting in it.

"And besides," Hadvar continued warmly, shifting around to stand in front of me before I could sit and cradling my waist as his hands fell to the small of my back. "I am off duty. I have a rule, to never bring work home with me," his nose wrinkled.

He was adorable, and underneath my giggle, I understood that he was both referring to our escape of Helgen; to his mind, I had _not_ been work; and making every effort to keep the air light for my sake. Grateful, I let myself be swept away by the mood, even as I knew it wouldn't last. I flickered a lofty glance around the tent. " _Home_ looks an awful lot like your office today, _Quaestor_ ," I teased.

Hadvar mirrored my assessment of the tent. "You're right," his eyes danced as he glanced back to me. "Why don't we rectify that? There's an inn in Rorikstead. We could..." his mirth faltered, just for a second, to betray a trace of uncertainty. "Perhaps I could...buy you dinner, my Lady?" he chanced quietly.

It was such a simple, heartfelt request, and such a _normal_ idea after the long, terrible day. I smiled widely now, my eyes shining as the romantic within me glowed. Dinner. Together. I could think of nothing I would like more.

In the corner of my vision, something shifted; I flickered the something a glance and saw that it was Dathies, leaning back on his chair with a bored expression on his face.

"Oh," I flushed. Hadvar had distracted me to the point where – yet again – I had forgotten that there were three other Legion officers in the tent with us.

My smile faltered as I turned my head to Elsga. Was I... _allowed_ to leave the encampment? "Captain, now that the war is won – surely the Legate would not be opposed..."

I trailed off at the sight of the apologetic glance she was casting my way. "I'm sorry, ma'am," she said, and it sounded as though she truly was. "We have orders to protect you and until those orders are revoked, I'm afraid you're stuck with us."

"That's not what I meant," I defended quickly, my flush doubling.

Hadvar's arms loosened as he ducked down to my level. "It's all right. They can come with us," he offered cheerily, then turned and casually offered me his arm.

Blinking at the swiftness of his actions, I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow cautiously. Perhaps the Legate had _not_ confined me to the garrison; my guards were not opposing the suggestion, and Hadvar would never have asked had it risked going against a superior's orders. "All...right," I conceded, though my enthusiasm for the idea was in flux, given that we would be accompanied by three large, quiet soldiers wherever we went. The vision of a romantic dinner for two dissolved.

 _Remember where you are and make the most of this time with him._

Hadvar led me from the tent. The booted footfalls of my honour guard clomped behind us as we turned down the row of tents and walked past the fluttering torches now lighting the paths.

Sounds of merriment danced over the canvas garrison, echoing off the hills that the encampment was nestled between. At intervals I spied blazing bonfires, surrounded by clusters of men and women in Legion armour, laughing, drinking, and talking animatedly.

The soldiers of the Empire were celebrating their victory. I glanced to Hadvar, wondering if he would not rather be here with his fellows? The question was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it, for fear of him saying _yes_. It was selfish of me, but I didn't want to have to share him with anybody right now.

He must have sensed my notice; his eyes found mine. He wore a broad smile and his eyes reflected the small fires around us. "Is something the matter?" he asked warmly.

I shook my head, grasping his elbow a little tighter as I looked back to our path and leaned my head against his arm. "I am...glad you are here," I owned quietly.

His reply was a gentle kiss to the top of my head.

–

"We are, um, busier than usual, but I will see what I can arrange for you, Lady Dragonborn," the red-headed Nord youth who seemed to be one of the Frostfruit inn's only workers said with some reverence as his cheeks pinked. "Just – give me a minute or two," he darted off.

Smiling and thanking the lad, who I felt odd in thinking of as a 'lad' given that he was a head or two taller than me, I glanced around the small, homey-feeling tavern.

"It's a little noisier than I would like, but will it do?" Hadvar mused as he wound his arm around my waist.

I nodded. There was something very welcoming about the Frostfruit inn, even in its current, somewhat cacophonous state and full of soldiers. The long hearth blazed in the centre of the public room, clear of the char marks and ash that usually encircled tavern hearths, surrounded instead by relaxed-looking Legionnaires bearing tankards and wooden cups. At the end of the room was a tall bar crowded by so many officers that I couldn't make out the person or people who must have been serving behind it. Glancing up, I saw that wreaths of snowberries had been hung above the polished horn lanterns, and smiled at the pretty touch it loaned to the inn. Somebody took great pride in this place.

Before the serving lad had returned, a figure approached and stood before us; a huge Nord soldier wearing heavy armour and with a short, dark moustache and beard. "Reidarsson, the General requests a moment of your time."

I felt Hadvar stiffen as he stood a little taller. "Legate Skulnar," he offered a salute with his free hand.

"At ease; you're off duty," the older, dark-haired Nord flicked me a sideways glance, then did a double take. "Lady Dragonborn," he offered quietly, dipping his head a little as his eyes travelled over me uncertainly.

"Hello," I returned politely, looking up to Hadvar in wonder. What would the General want of him _here_ , and now?

His eyes were elsewhere; searching the room swiftly. "I did not realise that the General was here," he murmured, almost regretfully.

"This won't take long," Legate Skulnar replied flatly, motioning toward a table at the bar end of the public room. I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of Legate Rikke, and had to assume that General Tullius was with her.

"Of course," Hadvar accepted, sending me a sheepish look as the Legate turned to leave. "Sorry," he ducked and whispered. "I'll be back-"

I made sure I smiled around my plaintive feelings, and nodded supportively. "Go. Do you want me to order you something?"

Hadvar's hand was on my arm as he stepped past me, and he cast me a grateful smile. "Thank you," his fingers drifted from me as he walked away.

I watched him join the table of high-ranking Legion officers, and was able to maintain my smile until he disappeared from view.

Then I sighed, turning away and looking for the serving lad. It seemed that I was going to have to share Hadvar's attentions, after all.

"Don't be disheartened, ma'am," the member of my guard whose name I didn't know spoke up. I turned to the man and made an effort to smooth my expression. "Quaestor Reidarsson is always in high demand, given his actions at Korvanjund," he continued. "But I daresay he will not leave _you_ for long."

My brows furrowed at yet another reference to the Nordic ruin. "What did he do there?" I asked, recalling that it had been after the mission that Hadvar had been promoted to Quaestor.

"He hasn't told you?"

I shook my head speculatively. "He might have once, but his letters for some time now have been intercepted by someone-"

The ginger lad returned very suddenly. "I've got a table ready-" he burst out.

I startled as I faced him swiftly, my brows still crossed, to see that he was peering around me.

"Where's your soldier friend?" the young man asked.

"He was called to the General's table, but he will be joining us again directly," I cast the Imperial guard a glance, wordlessly expressing that our conversation wasn't over.

"Ah – very good," the boy ducked as he turned around. "This way, if you please."

He led us to a small table tucked into the furthermost corner from the bar, cast in shadow, though a small dish was in its centre bearing three fat, white, flickering candles. Once I was seated he rattled off the house special, and I swiftly ordered it and some wine for both Hadvar and I, hoping that I was making the right choice. I had no idea what food or drink he actually preferred, apart from everything that his aunt cooked, and having sampled Sigrid's cooking for myself, I doubted that any inn in Skyrim would be her equal.

Once the lad had left I turned around in my seat. My three guards had remained standing behind me, and I fixed my gaze on the Imperial man who had talked of Hadvar's actions that had led to his promotion. "Tell me what Quaestor Reidarsson did at Korvanjund."

The man gave a somewhat uncertain, sideways glance to his peers, before he frowned and nodded. "He retrieve the Jagged Crown for the Empire. Tore it from the hands of the false Dragonborn."

Of course, I had known that they had been at the same place at the same time, but I baulked at the revelation that Hadvar had stood _face to face_ with my sister. Had they fought one another? How had he survived against her magic, or she against his steel? Perhaps her attack on the Pale encampment had not been entirely provoked by my letter to him.

Before I could ask anything, Captain Mjardott made a snorting sound. My eyes flicked to her, full of unasked questions.

"That is _not_ why he was promoted," she scoffed to the Imperial officer, then glanced to me. "You deserve to know the _full_ of it, ma'am, considering what has occurred today. If not for Reidarrson, Korvanjund would have been a tomb for many more bodies that day," she said, her words spoken with evident respect. "It was his bravery that was rewarded, not his retrieval of the crown."

My heart swelled with pride as I glanced toward the table Hadvar had been led to in wonderment, though I was not truly surprised. Had he not saved me, when he hadn't needed to, back in Helgen? Nodding, understanding in part what must have occurred, I murmured, "He knew she was not the Dragonborn, didn't he?"

All three of my guards confirmed it, but it was Dathies who took control of the story, then.

"He didn't even falter," the officer regaled, looking longingly at a tray of drinks that the serving lad was passing by us holding. "That's what saved us. Had he been surprised or cautious, like the rest of us were, she would have had the time to burn us alive where we stood."

My eyes widened. "You were _there_?"

Dathies nodded once as his eyes shifted back to me. "Aye, I was, and I owe my life to your young man. It was a ghoulish place, full of fierce draugr defending it and Stormcloaks attacking us from all sides. And in the temple crypt, there she was, standing proud with the ancient relic as though she intended to put it on her head and claim leadership of Skyrim right then. If Reidarsson hadn't charged in and known to separate her hands so she couldn't cast a spell, there our remains would have stayed."

" _Gods_ ," I shuddered, turning back to the table and staring at the wood grain. How was it that _any_ could stomach calling _me_ the hero of Skyrim for merely being _present_ at events occurring around me, when there were true heroes like Hadvar among us who _had_ saved countless men and women _without_ Divine intervention? It was the actions of men like Hadvar that inspired bards to write heroic ballads. The musician within me _burned_ to compose the saga of Korvanjund in his honour. I would do so some day, I vowed, though I etched Dathies words to memory for later, so that I would not be consumed by song then and there.

The personal implications of what had occurred in the Nordic ruin warmed both my thoughts and cheeks. Hadvar's swift actions spoke of his regard, his _faith_ in me, even back then when we had barely known one another. Upon seeing the woman calling herself Dragonborn, who looked _identical_ to me, he _hadn't faltered_. He had believed that she was not me already, but in that first second he had seen her, Hadvar must have also recalled that I had mentioned I had a twin who was studying to be a mage in an offhand way to Dorthe around his aunt and uncle's dinner table, and had known that she was not Shouting at their army, but casting standard destruction spells.

I had known and seen for myself that Hadvar was strong, clever, loyal and logical, but this _swiftness_ of mind was something to be in awe of. He hadn't been promoted because he'd retrieved an artefact or saved his fellows; the Empire had elevated him to Quaestor because he had the intellect that, in the right role, would determine who won this war.

There was a lot more to the story that I wanted to know – including why Giselle had not been captured that very day by the Legion, after Hadvar had disarmed her – but we were interrupted before I could ask any more by the arrival of the ginger serving lad, who swiftly placed two goblets of red wine before me.

"Did you see much battle today, Lady Dragonborn?" he asked eagerly as he stood tall and hugged the drinks tray to his chest.

He looked so earnest that I didn't have the heart to dismiss him. "A little," I shrugged, reaching for and sniffing at the contents of the goblet before me. I was no expert, but the red within smelled very sweet for wine.

As I took a small sip, confirming that it _was_ more honeyed than I had expected it to be, though not overly sickly, the youth shuffled on the spot, glancing around briefly before he leaned in a little closer. "What was it like? Did you use the thu'um on the Stormcloaks?" he whispered intently.

"Move along lad," Captain Mjardott cut in dryly. "She's not a bard, here to tell you..." she stopped, checked herself; cleared her throat. "Well. I mean, not today, at least," she muttered.

Elsga's blunder lightened the mood immensely and I laughed as I glanced toward her. Dathies, the Imperial guard, and the serving lad laughed with me, as Elsga rolled her eyes at all of us, or perhaps at herself.

"It's all right – sit a moment," I encouraged the youth, pushing out the chair beside me, because I knew that my guard wouldn't sit no matter how many times I offered seats to them. "The Battle for Whiterun is a tale that does not deserve to be rushed," I lifted an eyebrow at him, shifting seamlessly into the role of the alluring bard intent on gathering her audience.

"L...Lady Dragonborn," the serving lad's eyes widened and a smile lit up his whole face. "You would really...?" he glanced about the room again. "It would be an honour!" he squeaked as in a single hurried motion, he sat beside me, the empty serving tray still clasped to his chest.

I smiled at his enthusiasm, though felt mildly unsettled by the whole _glory of battle_ penchant that Nords seemed to carry with them, no matter their age. People had _died_ today, and this young man was eager to hear all about it.

 _So, do what you have been trained to do. Do the fallen honour, and justice._

I sat up a little straighter, replacing my goblet on the table and pushing aside my unease so that I might find the right words to weave into my tale.

"Where to begin?" I mused, assembling my focus. "Perhaps, with the leaders of both cities and men, the soldiers, the housecarls and Companions who gathered high above Whiterun in the darkest hours of the morning; their eyes trained east upon a distant, many-faced snake of flames drawing nearer to their home, who knew that when the sun peeked over the mountaintops, the Stormcloaks would try to take it from them..."

–

The youth's name was Erik. He was the only son of the Frostfruit's innkeeper, and, I found out later, only two years younger than I. There was an earnest brightness to the lad – _man_ – that made him seem younger than he was, and I thought him to be very pleasant company while I waited for Hadvar to return from the General's table.

He seemed to drink in all I spun about the parts of the battle that I had witnessed, and I hoped that I had not elaborated too much. I was certain that Erik would be regaling parts of my story to any patrons good enough to listen to him in the future, for they didn't seem to have a resident bard of their own to take up that task.

And why was that, I wondered? Rorikstead was small, but it was extremely central; close enough to Whiterun to draw travellers passing through, certainly.

When I asked Erik about it, he looked a little uncomfortable before he tilted his head and half-smiled. "Father doesn't see the cause to hire a bard," he shrugged. "Says that bards distract a man from his duty, while romanticising all manner of mischief about the world outside – ahh!" his blue eyes widened as he shook his head hurriedly. "But – I mean no offence, my Lady! Why, if he'd heard _you_ telling the battle for Whiterun-"

"Erik," I had been trying to stop my laughter, and held a hand out for him to pause. "I have taken no offence. And, your father is right," I admitted. "We bards _can_ be a mischievous lot."

"I think you're wonderful," he sat back wistfully. "Wandering Skyrim, seeking adventure and having the talent to take all you see and weave it into a song or story, to brighten the lives of others."

It was his longing that caught me, and I wondered if Erik, as with Jon Battle-Born, was harbouring a desire to journey to the Bard's college that his father disapproved of. "A bard does not need to travel to perform songs worthy of the High King's court, but merely to feel; for music is an outward expression of the self," I murmured; words passed to me by one of my teachers. "Do... _you_ sing, or write?" I asked him gently.

"Me?" Erik choked out the word. " _Gods_ , no. I sound like a dying cat – and besides, what would _I_ have to sing or write about? Potatoes and dishwashing?"

I raised my eyebrows, shoving down my amusement and suddenly wishing that there _was_ a ditty to be sung about potatoes and dishwashing. Even his jesting condescension carried repressed passion; but not for music, it seemed.

So I pressed him further. It took only a few more offhand questions about travel for him to tell me the whole; how stifled he felt in Rorikstead; how his father wanted him to stay here forever and take ownership of the inn some day; how he yearned to journey out to see and make his mark on the world.

He related this with a fervour that would have made him a wonderful bard, had he felt the call; a desire to drink in all the world had to offer; something that I had never had particularly strong feelings about. Perhaps it was only natural for him to desire that which was denied to him while others flit through his father's tavern, telling him of their own adventures before charging out on their next.

I could have told Erik my sad story and insist that he treasure his father for the years that they had left together, but I didn't, for I had a feeling that it was advice that he had received many times before tonight.

"Perhaps you could offer your father a compromise?" I proposed as an idea sprung to mind.

Erik frowned, shaking his head. "I've tried everything."

"Have you tried the Companions?" I raised my eyebrows.

For a moment his brows furrowed. "Companions? They would never accept me – I'm nobody," he scoffed. "Jorrvaskr only accepts the most elite of warriors."

"They accepted me," I lifted my chin. "And believe me Erik; I am _no_ warrior," I widened my eyes for emphasis. "But. The Companions taught me. Aside from the thu'um, they taught me almost everything I know about archery and stealth, and I would not know the right end of a blade or how to ball my fist to ensure it doesn't break my hand if I have to hit someone, if not for their expert tutelage. When I am in Whiterun I _still_ train with them, every day."

"You're...a Companion?" Erik asked uncertainly.

 _I'm their Harbinger_ was on the tip of my tongue, but I managed to stop the words from leaving my mouth, and nodded instead. I was _not_ their Harbinger.

Vilkas had asked us to keep our eyes open for people with fire in their hearts to join our family, and Erik's heart seemed to be overflowing with brightness. If his father would agree, Erik would not only be trained and protected, but assigned jobs when he was ready that would give him the adventure he sought. And, he would be close enough to Rorikstead to visit his father regularly, to assure him that he was safe.

"The next time you are in Whiterun," I told him, "you should go to Jorrvaskr. Ask for our Harbinger – a man named Vilkas – and tell him that Celeste Passero requests you be tested."

Erik openly gaped. "You would do that for _me_? _Why_?"

I gave him a perplexed look. "I've done nothing. This is for _you_ to act upon."

The young man nodded; the red plaits either side of his face bobbing. "I understand. I – I will...try. Thank you."

"Haven't done anything," I repeated in a sing-song voice.

He looked down and laughed. "Then, thanks for nothing?" he hazarded.

"There you are, Erik," a low voice cut in and an older, balding man with his sleeves rolled up leaned over the table and set down two plates of grilled salmon and vegetables; one in front of me and the other before Erik, for he was occupying the seat that Hadvar was set to take when he returned. "And I should have known where you would be!" he laughed. "He's not bothering you, is he, Lady Dragonborn?"

The delicious aroma of baked potatoes and rosemary wafted to me and I made an appreciative sound as I breathed the scent in. "Mmmm. No, not at all," I murmured in a dreamy voice. "He has been keeping me company while my friend is in a meeting," I added with an appreciative, sideways look at the young man.

Erik smiled a little sadly and got to his feet. "Sorry, father. I'd better get back to work."

"Perhaps we shall cross paths again in Whiterun, some day," I bade him farewell.

"Uh," Erik glanced hastily toward his father, and shrugged. "Yeah, maybe," he muttered, turning away quickly as his cheeks pinked.

The publican rolled his eyes as he watched the boy go. "A dreamer, that one – just like his mother," he sighed, settling his hands on his hips as he turned back to me. "Have you got everything you need here?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

I hesitated as the publican turned to leave.

"And," I had to say something, and smiled ruefully when Erik's father turned back to me. "Dreamers change the world for good," I recalled something I had read in one of the texts at the college. "Maybe...Skyrim could use more dreamers."

"Perhaps so, my Lady," he replied politely, and dipped his head to take his leave. He clearly did _not_ want to talk about it, so I let him go, for it was none of my business anyway. What I had said to Erik was true; he would need to act, and he would need to convince his father of where he truly wanted to be.

Still; I hoped that I might see the enthusiastic young man in the mead hall, some day.

My eyes shifted to what I could see of the table where Hadvar was sitting over the crowds of soldiers between us. I bit my bottom lip as I wondered whether I should begin without him, now that the food had arrived. He would probably insist upon it, if he were asked, but I waited anyway as a sudden determination to take dinner with him rose stubbornly within me.

So I waited, sipping the sweet, ruby-red wine occasionally, watching the other patrons with vague interest and glancing more and more frequently to the General's table, _willing_ their meeting to end.

It was perhaps another ten minutes before there was movement at it, and I saw flashes of armour as the bodies seated there rose.

I stood swiftly, craning my neck to try and see what was happening, but I was too short and there were too many people blocking my view to make much of it out. What I _could_ determine was that their party _did_ seem to be breaking up. The Legate that had retrieved Hadvar the moment we had stepped into the Frostfruit was one of the first to leave the building.

" _Finally_ ," I breathed, sitting again and staring with a sigh at our cold meals. He would be with me in a moment, and we could decide what to do about dinner then.

But it wasn't Hadvar's voice that greeted me.

"Miss Passero," the seemingly perpetually unimpressed tones of General Tullius came to my ears and I stilled in my seat. "It pleases me to see that you are well," he continued.

I glanced over my shoulder; Hadvar _was_ there but he was standing behind the General, who was being flanked by Legate Rikke. My eyes fell to Hadvar, full of questions; his apologetic grey depths gave me no answers.

I reminded myself that there was nothing to fear; I was outside of the Legion's command, because the General did not _want_ me involved. I stood hastily and turned, accepting his outstretched hand.

"General!" I managed, forcing a brightness into my greeting to mask my surprise as he shook my hand. "Um. Congratulations, on your victory today, sir," I wasn't sure of what else to say as my eyes raked over the older man. He had not been stationed at Castle Dour for long while I had still been in Solitude, but the soldier still formed the same picture of saturnine, Imperial fastidiousness as he had then, with his bronzed and gilded armour neat and polished, his grey hair cropped close to his head, and his piercing, dark brown eyes hard and critical.

"It's a victory for _all_ of us; for you as well," the General let go of my hand, bowing his head a little in my direction. "Many of the reports that came to me throughout the day spoke of your actions. I had recommended that Balgruuf evacuate you before the fighting began – but his faith in your abilities has been well placed. On behalf of the Imperial Legion, thank you – for _everything_ that you did today."

Incredulity flowed through me and I cast Hadvar another hasty, questioning glance. What _was_ this? Hadvar half-smiled in return, though his eyes still bore a sense of anxiety that I couldn't place.

"That is...I mean, you're welcome," I blinked, glancing back to the General quickly, for I had taken too long to reply to him graciously.

"Hmm," the General nodded in satisfaction, perhaps deciding that his duty to me had been completed. After a pregnant pause, he bowed in a way that indicated he was about to leave, and a tightness in my chest relaxed at once.

"I hope to be seeing more of you in the future, Miss Passero," he motioned toward Elsga, Dathies and the other guard whose name I'd never learnt. "You three can head back to camp and sign out for the night. Today's wars have been won," he flickered me another glance as he said it, "and I believe Reidarsson has a matter to discuss with our Lady Dragonborn in private."

When I glanced swiftly to Hadvar I lifted my eyebrows expectantly, but he still remained silent. The General, Legate Rikke and my three former guards left, and I somehow managed to bid them farewell despite the curiosity over what the General had said threatening to burst out of me.

The moment they were gone, Hadvar stepped forward and took both of my hands in his. "I'm sorry – I didn't realise I would be gone for so long."

I shook my head, dismissing the matter. "What was _that_ all about?" I asked, nodding toward the retreating officers. "It sounded as though the General expected something of me, but I can't determine what it might have been."

Hadvar shook his head in a frustrated manner, then urged me to sit.

I did, and he sat beside me, our hands still clasped as we faced one another; our knees interlocking. "I _think_ that was his way of apologising for the letter you told me about – where he asked you to keep out of the Empire's affairs."

"Oh," my eyes widened, and snapped to meet Hadvar's suddenly. "He doesn't expect me to _join_ the Legion now, does he?"

"No – no," Hadvar cut in quickly through a laugh. "Certainly not."

"Well, _that's_ a relief," I smiled through a disbelieving huff of my own. "I would make a _terrible_ soldier."

"Yes – let's go with that," Hadvar threw me a suspicious half smile, detangling one of his hands to lift his fingers to my brow. He brushed back some of my hair thoughtfully. "Whatever keeps you as far away from this war as possible."

The pensive way Hadvar spoke made me a little sad, though I smiled in return, leaning into his touch as his hand shifted to my cheek. I closed my eyes and sighed. To stay far from the war would keep me far from him, perhaps for many years to come, I feared. I couldn't bare to think it, let alone voice it.

After a silence I opened my eyes and searched for a topic to change the subject, clearing my throat and sitting back. "The General said you needed to speak to me privately?" I reminded him.

"Oh – yes," Hadvar also sat back, a little flushed it seemed, and glanced down as he searched through a pouch on his weapons belt. After a brief moment he retrieved a slip of parchment and handed it to me.

My brows furrowed as I accepted it with a curious glance before lowering my eyes to the note. It simply bore my name, and a string of numbers.

"What is this?" I didn't recognise it.

Hadvar leaned toward me and pointed to the numbers. "A bank account. The General has arranged everything on your behalf. You should have access to eighty percent of your family's money within three days. The remainder...soon enough," he met my eyes carefully.

It took me a moment to realise what he meant, and when I did, I turned my eyes back down to the strip of parchment and nodded. It would all be mine, after Giselle's fate had been meted out to her.

"Thank you," I made myself say, though it had been so long since I had thought of my family's money that I wondered if I would even use it. I tucked the note away into my armour, to think about later. _Much_ later.

"Hey," Hadvar encouraged. "Come back to me, love. _I'll_ sing Age of Aggression, if I have to," there was a trace of amusement to his remark.

Did Hadvar sing? I smiled at the offer, lifting my eyes to his as I shook my head. "I'm okay."

"Good," he leaned forward, took my hand in his again and looked down to where they were joined. "Because...there's more."

"More...what?" I asked in a small voice.

"More...to tell you," he glanced up, the apprehension once again plain in his eyes.

Tensing at the prospect of taking in any more grim news today, I shook my head. "What's happened?" I asked fearfully.

"Oh – no, it's nothing bad," Hadvar fumbled, reached his other hand out to grasp mine in both of his. "I'm sorry, I don't want to make a big deal of this," he flashed me a hasty half-smile. "But I am still getting used to it for myself."

"Getting used to _what_?" I was still cautious despite his reassurances, for he did not seem to be calm at all.

"I've..." he took a deep breath and his cheeks seemed pinker on the exhale. "I've been promoted. Again," he met my eyes. "The General made me Praefect, just now."

I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't realised I had been holding and my shoulders relaxed as I tried not to laugh. "But that's wonderful news!" I leapt forward, throwing my arms around his neck. "I'm so happy for you," I embraced him from my seat, and felt his hands come to rest on my waist as I squeezed my eyes shut. "You had me worried that something was _wrong_!"

He laughed softly, his breath washing over my neck. "Sorry," he said again, then hesitated, his hands grasping my waist a little tighter. Eventually, he added in a hush; "I was so nervous about telling you."

"Why ever for?" I leaned back, smiling broadly at him as my eyes shone with pride. "Dathies told me what you did at Korvanjund, Hadvar. You _deserve_ these accolades you are given – your only fault is modesty!" I teased.

"Oh – I..." Hadvar blinked a little as his cheeks grew more red and he smiled a small, humble smile. "I should probably tell you the rest," he said thoughtfully, almost to himself.

"I am prepared," I replied in a jesting, lofty tone as I sat up straighter, taking both of his hands in mine this time.

Hadvar smiled as he regarded me. "It's...the promotion to Praefect. It comes with a new post," he met my eyes, and there was that _blasted_ flash of worry again!

"Now that the battle is won, the General has assigned me to act as the Empire's representative for Whiterun Hold," he revealed with a nervous laugh.

My eyes widened. "You've been stationed in _Whiterun_?" I whispered.

"I have," he confirmed, squeezing my hands in his. "Which means...I'm going to be living in Whiterun, for a time."

Squeaking in excitement, I leapt forward to hug him again, unable to articulate my thoughts. Whiterun. _Hadvar_ was to live in _Whiterun_! It was as though my daydreams had come true.

"Do you realise what this means?" Hadvar asked hurriedly as he held me close, taking a deep breath as he buried his nose in my hair.

I nodded as the glowing, joyful tears of relief sprung to my eyes. "You'll be safe. You'll be close enough to Riverwood to visit your family – whenever you want! Oh, _Hadvar_!" I withdrew far enough to look up to him. "I'm _so_ happy for you," I repeated.

"For _us_ ," Hadvar stressed, his hands forging a path down my sides and coming to rest on my hips. "Yes, everything you said is true," he said quickly, "but think of what this means for _us_ , Celeste," he urged.

"Us?" I wavered.

He nodded, leaning forward as he swallowed nervously – and then I understood – _this_ was why he had been nervous about telling me of his promotion. Because living in Whiterun meant...

"It means _we_ can be together," he emphasised, his fingers grasping as he spoke. "It means that I can _finally_ promise you more than to _write_ occasionally, and I..." he lifted one of his hands to stroke my arm gently. "I can court you properly. As you deserve," he looked down, watching the path his fingers took.

I was stunned by this new reality I had found myself in and my lower lip trembled as I tried to find words – any words – to respond with. All I seemed to be capable of doing was repeating him. " _Together_?" I gasped.

Hadvar nodded, watchful of my response. "If – if you want-"

" _Yes_ ," I burst out in a rush.

He laughed at my earnestness, then relaxed, leaning closer as his palm brushed my cheek and his fingertips settled in my hair. "Thank the Divines," he sighed, laughing again, but softly as he pressed his nose beside mine and closed his eyes. "I was terrified of what you would think of me for asking, and what you might say," he owned quietly.

"Terrified of _me_?" I breathed a laugh.

"Yes," he replied quickly, his breath ghosting my lips as he pressed his nose against mine to tilt my head. "Because...I can't..." he withdrew a little and I nearly pouted at the loss of the kiss I had been certain was coming as I met his eyes.

His were serious again; regretful almost. "I can't promise you forever – not yet," he hissed; almost a curse. "While I am contracted to the army, I might be moved again, to Shor-knows where and with barely any notice, and it would not be fair to ask..." he paused and seemed to change his mind. "Celeste, my heart has been yours from the moment I met you, and that will never change. But until I can provide you with...with a stable home, and a future together...the _moment_ that I can promise you these, I will take you to Riften," he vowed.

My breath caught in my throat; again, all I seemed to be able to do was echo the last thing he said. " _Riften_?"

"I mean," he lowered his eyes hastily. "If...you want? If you will have me."

I stopped myself from incredulously repeating him again just in time. _Riften_. Lovers went to Riften for one thing; the Temple of Mara, which meant _marriage_.

"I know...we have never spoken of this before," he murmured while my mind reeled. He huffed to himself. "If I am being presumptuous, don't be afraid to tell me," he glanced up again, earnestly adding, "And if you aren't ready to answer, then don't. I will wait. I'll wait forever, for you."

This was the discussion about our futures, about where this attachment would lead that I had wondered over at Mixwater Mill. He _did_ want a life with me, and better still, we could be together _now_ , in Whiterun.

And then from outside of this beautiful, wondrous life I was allowing myself to imagine, a dragon pointedly knocked against the metaphorical door; its banging rocking me fiercely as the unfairness of its presence spilled over me. "Hadvar," I gasped as tears flew to my eyes. "High Hrothgar," I managed to choke out.

He understood and replied at once. "I don't care about the Greybeards," he spoke resolutely. "I told you, I will wait for you."

I shook my head miserably, for that had only been in part what had overcome me. "No. I mean," I tried to blink away my tears, but more hurried to replace them. "I said I would leave for High Hrothgar after Whiterun was safe," I met his eyes, pleading, biting my bottom lip to stave off the tears for as long as I could. "You are coming to Whiterun just as I am leaving it," I explained sadly.

He sat back, sighing to the roof of the inn, and his thumb brushed over my hand where he still held it. "I know," he told the ceiling in a low voice. "I have not forgotten this. But I hoped..." he stopped, cursing to himself as he shook his head in frustration, then looked back to me. "I'll accept whatever time you give. A week – a day. A single hour," he huffed, seeming crestfallen.

And in his eyes, I recognised that sense of despondency he adopted as he prepared to say goodbye.

 _No_ , I insisted. I was _not_ going to be responsible for that look; not today, not after everything else that had been suffered, and not in the wake of his beautiful promises; his dreams for our future declared when he had set his heart at my feet.

If I was to have any time with Hadvar before the Greybeards and their training swallowed up a portion of my life, it was to be _now_ , I realised with sudden clarity. And I would _not_ waste this precious time, wallowing in what might be if only we were masters of our own destinies.

"Hadvar, do you have any leave accrued that you might take?" I asked quickly, sitting forward on my seat as my tears retreated and a determined idea lit a flame of hope in my chest.

Hadvar seemed baffled, but answered at once. "A little. Why?"

I nodded as my mind sang with glee. "Can you request some – a week, perhaps – before you start your post in Whiterun? It will take the Jarl a few days to tie up matters in the wake of the battle for Whiterun and be ready to accept a representative of the Legion-" I spoke in a rush.

"Celeste," Hadvar cut me off with an apprehensive laugh. "You want me to escort you to the Throat of the World, is that it?"

I shook my head this time, my smile warm and eyes glowing as I squeezed his hands hopefully. "Not High Hrothgar, my love," my throat felt thick, and I cleared it so I could keep going. "Riften. I want us to go to Riften. _Tomorrow_."

"You want to get married _now_?" he asked loudly; his eyes widening in disbelief.

I laughed, glancing around the inn. His outburst _had_ attracted the eyes and subsequent grins of several nearby soldiers.

"Yes," I whispered earnestly, pointedly leaning closer so the whole of the Imperial Legion wouldn't witness our _entire_ arrangement. "I would marry you now, Hadvar Reidarsson – if _you_ will have _me_ ," I flushed in excitement.

"But -" he seemed truly shocked, and grappled for words. "What if I'm reassigned? While I'm with the army I am of no use to you as a _friend_ , let alone _husband_ -"

"And I will be a terrible wife," I cut him off, lifting a hand to his chin to grace the stubble there tenderly. "And if you marry me now, then soon after I will need to journey to the Greybeards, and I am not certain that's a quest I will ever come back from," I owned, the light in my tone extinguishing.

Hadvar's expression levelled; his eyes flickering over me in anguish. "You will come back. I am certain of it," he insisted soberly.

I managed a small, bittersweet laugh. "We can hope, but nothing about the future is certain. Which is why I don't want to _wait_ ," I emphasised, leaning forward to press my nose to his cheek; my eyes fluttering closed as my fingers trembled on his jaw. "I love you, Hadvar, and I want us to be together now, before the world tears us apart again. I'm bursting, trying to find the right words to express myself and convince you and - I'm coming up short," I laughed at myself. "I'm a useless bard when I'm around you. I can't promise you forever, either," I echoed as my lips ghosted the corner of his mouth. "But I can give you _now_."

Whatever war Hadvar was fighting within himself seemed conquered by my babble. He answered not with words, but a low, hoarse sound at the back of his throat as he captured my lips in a brief, hungry kiss that pulled the very air from my lungs.

I gasped when he withdrew after a few seconds. He pressed his forehead to mine as he grasped the back of my neck. "What I would give to be alone with you, right now," he all but _growled_ , his words rough with passion.

The sound resolved a bold sense of urgency. I tangled my fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and laughed while my heart pounded a loud, victorious rhythm in my chest. "Why can't we be alone?" the words tumbled from my lips as I caught my breath. "Does this inn not have...rooms for let?" I could barely believe what I was proposing, but my heart's desires had overcome my other senses, _determined_ to make the most of the time Hadvar and I could claim as ours.

Hadvar sat back to regard me with widened eyes. "By the Gods, I love you," he praised swiftly, rising to his feet and offering me his hand.

I laughed in glee; at his comical haste, my eyes dancing over his form as he guided me to my feet. "But – aren't you hungry?" I teased, pouting at our cold, forgotten dinner.

He cast _me_ what could only be called a ravenous look and stepped in close, drawing my hair aside to whisper a single, determined word, full of yearning;

" _Yes._ "

The looks of the Frostfruit's patrons were all-knowing and ranged from amused to surprised as Hadvar and I made our way to the bar. Perhaps it was the purposeful way he hurried us through the throng of soldiers that made our intentions clear, or perhaps they could sense the glow of anticipation coursing through me, or hear the racing of my heart.

Truthfully, I didn't care – for their attentions, or their judgement, if they were passing any. Erik's father rented us a private room for ten Septims and no sooner had he shown us to it and closed the door behind him than Hadvar had let go of my hand and turned away, only to turn the key and lock the door.

I took a few slow steps into the room, taking in its features. It was a simple, cosy affair with a single window, a dresser underneath it on which sat a flickering lantern, and a bed, covered in furs. _This is it._

I turned back to Hadvar swiftly and watched him instead, painfully uncertain of what was expected of me next as the reality of where we were caught up to me.

He had stilled there; his eyes on the door and his hand hovering over the key. He sighed, and the breath left him in a shudder.

"Are you all right?" I asked quietly, biting my bottom lip as my anxiety built. Had he changed his mind?

Had I changed mine?

"I'm all right," he owned quietly, turning to regard me. "Are you?" he asked solemnly.

"Yes," I breathed.

His eyes were full of devotion; of longing, and after a brief moment of staring at one another like a pair of startled rabbits, he crossed the room to where I stood.

We reached for each other at the same moment. I wound my arm around his neck and fumbled with the buckle of his Legion helmet, while his hands fell to my waist, to the fastenings that secured my Thane's armour.

"So - it's settled between us?" he asked in a hush, his breath warm as he lowered his mouth to my neck before I could answer. I bit back a moan that threatened to claw out of my throat but then his lips were gone, and he was murmuring, close to my ear, "You...you really want to get married-?"

" _Yes_ ," I insisted, finally tugging the leather that secured his helmet to his head aside and lifting the offending metal object from him, letting it clatter to the wooden floor. As soon as it was gone, I wound my fingers into his hair and drew his mouth down to meet mine.

He groaned into my kiss, his hands tugging my armour. We parted far enough so I could lift my arms when he drew the leather chestpiece over my head, and he asked hurriedly, "And – you are certain -" my armour was thrown to one side; my hands fell to the ties of his Legion armour and began unlacing; his landed on the buckles of my tasset, but he grasped my hips, his hands shaking.

The way he shook gave me pause, and I glanced up with questions in my eyes. He was staring into me, his eyes wide and dark but the uncertainty tugged at my heartstrings.

"This is...okay?" his fingers clenched my hips again. "You don't want to...wait, until we are wed?" his throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously; his eyes clouded with passion and ever-watchful for my response.

I shook my head slowly, still pulling at the ties down the sides of his armour. No, I was tired of waiting for our lives to be less chaotic to be all that we could be together. "Do you?" I challenged.

A resolute shake of his head and an incomprehensible noise as he leaned down to kiss me was my answer, and I laughed with relief into his ardent affections.

For minutes, we kissed and managed to shed our armour piece by piece, and there was no more talking; no more questions or reservations, until we were clothed only in the tunics and leggings that we had worn underneath; those two layers of fabric all that remained between us.

Then Hadvar pulled back to ask a single, breathless word that sent shivers down my spine; " _Bed_?"

Before I could react; before I could even nod, the sounds from within the inn intensified, and there was a hurried, urgent banging on our door.

"Reidarsson! Passero!"

It was General Tullius, and he sounded... _furious_.

Hadvar and I wrenched apart; holding each other's arms in surprise as our wide eyes landed on the locked door.

The thumping of fist to wood came again. "Get out here or I will break down this door!"

Hadvar closed his eyes regretfully, groaning as he rested his forehead on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered hurriedly. "Whatever this is about – I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"We had better answer the door," I replied swiftly, a thick fear making my words sound small as I detangled myself from Hadvar and strode toward it, suddenly grateful that we had not managed to disrobe ourselves completely. Hadvar was a step behind me, but I reached the door first.

The General must have been listening for the sound of the lock, because the moment I had turned the key, the door flew open and Tullius, accompanied by a legion of soldiers and Legate Rikke, stormed passed us and into the room.

His dark eyes were wild and flashing as he glanced from me, to Hadvar, and then to the room; taking in the sight of our armour littering the wooden floor with a frown on his face. He said nothing of the state he had found us and the room in.

As Hadvar lay a gentle, reassuring hand on my back, I flushed in both embarrassment and anger, wondering how the General _dared_ to storm into our room when I was _not_ under his command, and Hadvar was off-duty. Were we _never_ to have a moment's peace?

General Tullius' eyes were back on me then, unyielding. "Where is she?" he snapped.

I crossed my brows at him. "Who?"

"You damned well know who!"

Hadvar's hand tensed. "General, might I remind you-" he started in a barely restrained tone.

"You may not, Praefect!" the General fired, then glanced back to me. "You loosened her bindings, didn't you?"

My heart plummeted as I suddenly understood what – _who_ – he meant. "Oh Gods," I whimpered, drawing a hand up to my mouth to mask my terror. "You let my sister _escape_?"

The General strode closer, standing tall before me and speaking stonily as his eyes narrowed. "Answer the question, Miss Passero."

" _General_!" Hadvar's other hand fell to my side; grasped my hip as he subtly urged me back toward him.

"Can it, Reidarsson, and let the woman answer for herself!"

"No – _no_! Of course I didn't," I blurted out.

"Do you swear it?"

"Yes – I swear on my parent's _souls_ , I did not assist her!"

The General glowered and glanced around the room again in evident agitation. "I have read your report," he replied stiffly.

"Yes," I nodded swiftly, "she asked me to do it, but I wasn't _stupid_ enough - !" I entreated, my eyes widening as my fear rose and threatened to choke me – not for my sister, but for who had gone to question her most recently. "Where is Lydia?!" I gasped in terror.

"She was attacked," the General snipped darkly. "She and your sister's guards were paralysed when we discovered she was gone."

" _Paralysed_?" I whispered in horror, staggering back and falling against Hadvar's chest; grateful that he held me up, or I _would_ have fallen. I shook my head swiftly in disbelief. "She couldn't cast a spell while her hands were bound."

"Did the Stormcloaks come for her?" Hadvar asked efficiently; his hands shaking with restraint where they held me up.

General Tullius' eyes snapped to him. "In our own _camp_?"

"If she is vital to Stormcloak's plans," Hadvar replied hurriedly in a more logical tone that I could have ever managed, "it stands to reason that he would command her retrieval. And what better time to do that, than while the Empire is celebrating its victory at Whiterun?"

I clenched my eyes closed, trying to calm my racing heart. "She said that she had to go back to him," I muttered.

"Get dressed," the General snapped. "Meet me in my tent in ten minutes," he ordered. "Both of you," his hard eyes swerved to me. " _Please_ ," he added through clenched teeth.

He turned and marched off without waiting for an answer, leaving the door wide open. Rikke and the legion or so of Imperial soldiers remained in our room.

Both Hadvar and I stood where we were, in stunned silence.

"You had better get a move on," Rikke suggested grimly, palming Hadvar his armour.


	44. Not Yet

_Chapter 44: Not Yet_

After Hadvar and I had redressed, Legate Rikke and the legion of Imperial officers the General had left in our room escorted us from the Frostfruit inn. We were a solemn party, and had it not been for the General's use of the word _please_ before he had stormed off, I might have assumed I was under arrest.

In sheer contrast to our sobriety, the continued merriment of the soldiers' celebrations from the nearby encampment were easily discernible in the distance.

We maintained a swift pace as we approached the garrison, and the closer we drew to the valley it was nestled between, the higher my anxiety for Lydia built. I was desperate to confirm that she was all right in the wake of Giselle's escape, and told myself again and again; _she was only paralysed_. Whoever had broken my sister out of her prison, if she had had any help at all, hadn't just killed my housecarl offhandedly.

Which frankly, didn't make any sense if Stormcloak and his followers were involved, which is why, I reasoned, that I grew more and more nervous about seeing Lydia for myself. Why would Stormcloaks take her and leave Imperial soldiers, or anyone questioning their General, alive? How close had I come to loosing my dear friend that night?

And in the wake of my sister's escape – what did the General want with _us_? Why summon us to his tent, particularly if he did not want me involved in Legion affairs? He had seemed to accept my oath that I had not helped Giselle, or he might have seen a need to detain me. Instead, he had begrudgingly _asked_ us to join him – which could only indicate that he needed my – or Hadvar's – help.

Out of nowhere, resolutely cutting off my inner musings, the sky _roared._ The sound repeated on itself; growing dimmer each time as it echoed.

I stilled and grabbed Hadvar's arm as he reached for mine at the same time. We held each other back as our entourage faltered and exclaimed around us, drawing their swords and unshouldering their bows.

I listened as my heartbeat thumped noisily in my ears, and then realised; it wasn't the Legion's _celebrations_ that we were hearing. It was _screaming_ , their urgent calls to one another, as they fought off _.._.

" _Nahagliiv fen du mali sil!_ "

 _Fury-burn-wither will devour your little souls_ , rasped through my mind. It was followed by a horrific, bestial scream of indignation.

 _Fury-burn-wither_ , I wondered apprehensively?

Hadvar and I stared at one another in shock. His eyes were wide and face was pale, and only in part from the reflected light of Secunda.

" _Strun Bah Qo!_ "

Prior to the dragon's shout, my face must have mirrored Hadvar's, but as the words _storm, wrath, lightning_ pushed through my head with a _whoosh_ I was spurred into action. I released Hadvar and whirled back around, running toward the encampment with my eyes trained on the heavens.

"It's calling a storm!" I cried out to my companions.

"It's _what_?"

I didn't bother answering whichever of the officers had asked; the evidence was forming before our eyes. Secunda was quickly veiled by a thick, surging blackness.

But of _course_. A dragon who could create a _thunderstorm_ with its voice was _all_ this ridiculously long day needed.

A wall of rain appeared as suddenly as the clouds had, and we were drenched in seconds as it gushed over us. Through the blur of the downpour, and the darkness of night, I caught glimpses Hadvar, Legate Rikke and the ten soldiers who accompanied us running alongside me.

I watched the dense, roiling clouds that had formed over the valley as they spread out, trying to catch a glimpse of the dragon that I knew was at the centre. A spear of lightning crashed to the ground, illuminating the beast's form for a second; its body vertical, it's wings outstretched, and its head turned down, observing all below. The lightning crackled and shook the very earth as its impacting _BOOM_ echoed around the valley. I squinted reflexively so that I might not be blinded by it, but the silhouette of the dragon was gone.

I reached back for my bow and an arrow and felt the blood drain from my face when my hands grasped at nothing. _Oh_. I had left my weapons in my quarters earlier, and had not taken them to the Frostfruit inn. The war had been won and I had been going to _dinner_ ; I had not thought I would need them.

Cursing, I yelled over the crashing of the freezing storm; the taunting screeches of the dragon and the hum of the soldiers who were caught up in the epicentre as we rounded the final corner on the road and entered the site of our newest battle.

"I need a bow!"

Our party drew to a hasty halt and Legate Rikke passed me hers without a word. It was already nocked with an arrow. I darted off immediately, registering that the Legate was unstrapping her quiver too, but I reasoned that she would either catch up with us, or I would simply use whoever's arrows I could come by.

There was already an abundance of arrows whizzing into the clouds in every direction, though I wondered what the soldiers were firing upon; there was no way to see the dragon around the storm it had unleashed.

Hadvar grabbed my arm and dragged me sideways with a swift motion, into one of the tents. The stiff, waterproofed canvas offered shelter from the worst of the freezing rain, though the force of the battering outside had created tears and subsequent leaks along some of the seams.

I leaned around the door flap and glanced up to the sky, but an urgent tug to my arm drew me within our shelter again.

"Stay back for now – _please_ ," Hadvar panted in a husky rush, grabbing a bow and a handful of arrows from the table within the tent. Hadvar was armed with his sword, even while off-duty it seemed, but he had not brought his bow to the inn with us either.

He stepped purposefully, protectively in front of me and peered out into the darkness, squinting through the rain. I stared at him, catching my breath, incredulous and silenced by his request. His eyes were on the sky when he spoke again, in a mutter, "This is not the first dragon that the Legion has danced with. Let us see what we are dealing with."

I opened my mouth to counter – this was not _my_ first time facing a dragon, either, and I was the sodding _Dragonborn_! – but Legate Rikke reached our position at that moment, bolted into our tent, and pushed her quiver into my chest.

"Good," she assessed our cover with a brief nod to Hadvar. "I don't need to tell you to keep her safe. Once it's over, proceed directly to the General's tent."

"Aye," Hadvar replied swiftly, his eyes flickering over the skies above as another incomprehensible screech bounced between my ears. He winced, then added, "Though it might take us a little longer than ten minutes to get there."

Rikke cast the sky a wary glance. "Pray that this one is smaller than the one at Lake Yorgrim," she murmured under her breath, before dashing off.

The heavy rainfall consumed her form in seconds.

"Lake _Yorgrim_?" I turned to Hadvar in awestruck horror as the memory of Vilkas and I escaping from the Nightgate inn assailed me. The Legion – _Hadvar_ – had fought a dragon _there_? _When_? "How many dragons have you fought?" I choked out.

"A few," Hadvar murmured tightly, clearly distracted. "There you are," he muttered darkly, and swiftly took a step out of our tent to fire an arrow into the night's sky.

" _Fo Krah Diin!_ "

The shout was deafening; _far_ too near for comfort, and _frost, cold, breeze_ whistled through me in time with the dragon's shout.

"Get back!" it was my turn; I grabbed hold of Hadvar and dragged him back into the tent. No sooner had I shifted him from the entryway than a pale gust of spindly ice flakes whirled in and bleached the canvas behind where he had been standing.

"Thanks," his eyes were focused on the frost as he reached back swiftly for another arrow. "How did you know-?" he moved to take up his previous position again.

" _Mal dovahkiin! Nahagliiv hon him sahlo slen motaad!_ "

"No!" I stressed, turning him back urgently. The words _little dragonborn, fury-burn-wither hears your weak flesh tremble_ caused me to pause and clench my eyes closed in an effort to push its words out of my mind. Over the sounds of the thunderstorm, I could hear the dragon's wings _whooshing_ as they beat steadily. He was very close, and circling us.

" _Bo; kriist us Nahagliiv!_ "

The dragon cried out again; relentless in its mocking, but its words; _come; stand before fury-burn-wither,_ made my eyes fly open. I glanced toward the exit to the tent in shocked realisation. _Nahagliiv_ was the dragon's _name_.

"What is it?" Hadvar asked hurriedly.

I shuddered as I turned Hadvar to me and met his wide, wild eyes. I told him through a shaking voice, "It – _he_ knows I'm here. He wants me to go to him," I added in a rush. "We have to get out of here."

His brows furrowed and mouth opened. "You can-?"

 _THUD._

Before he could say any more the earth rolled beneath our feet. It wasn't from a bolt of lightning, but an enormous weight, crashing to the ground. We clung to one another, our eyes flying back to the world outside of the tent. A gust of wind; no, a shockwave from the impact, pushed against us.

He had _landed_ , I realised in horror. And, unlike the other dragons I had encountered, this one, this _Nahagliiv_ , appeared to be after me.

"We have to go, _now_!" I screamed.

Hadvar didn't need to be told again; we raced toward the back of the tent, diving for the base of the canvas and clawing it up to create a gap, as _Fo Krah Diin_ was hissed again, from _directly behind us_.

The frost of his shout bit through my leggings and then my skin, where my armour didn't protect it, but I grit my teeth and bore the stinging, freezing burn as Hadvar and I squeezed underneath the side of the tent.

The teeming rain blurred the forms outside of the tent, but there was no mistaking the sound of the dragon's scream of rage, as what must have been arrows fired by the nearby Legionnaires found their mark. Their target had landed; of course they had taken advantage. The battlecries of the many followed as a faint, faraway din, muted by the cold rain, as Hadvar and I scrambled to our feet. Before I could turn to help those fighting, Hadvar grabbed my arm and bolted in a straight line, in the opposite direction to the dragon, leading us behind the row tents.

"You have to let me go!" I cried desperately as I tried with futility to pull out of his firm grasp. If the dragon could hear me, _sense_ me, then it would follow _us_ , no matter where Hadvar took me. "I have to face him!"

The _whoosh_ of the dragon taking off pushed against us, even through the rain and from behind the lines of canvas. I glanced back hastily to see him hovering above the tent line; his great wings flapping lazily, unfazed by the haze of rain pummelling his form. _Fo Krah Diin_ was uttered as an arcing breath of ice gushed out of his maw, aimed directly below, at those who still attacked him.

Then I was tugged sideways, and the impact of the rain ceased as I landed against Hadvar with an _oomph_. As he settled me back on my feet and I regained my balance, I glanced about and saw that he had pulled us into a small rock hollow, barely sheltered from the rain, in the walls of one of the hills the Legion had set up camp between.

"Not yet," he strode to the edge of the grotto, drawing another arrow as he moved. Rivulets of water dripped from his armour, his drenched hair underneath his helmet, and his elbows as he raised the bow. "You can understand what it says, can't you?" he asked in a quiet voice, flickering me a guarded glance.

I confirmed with a small nod, obscurely fearful of what his response would be.

"Good," he bit out, his eyes trained on the sheet of water cascading before us. "Tell me everything you hear it say. We may need to run again-"

" _Fo Krah_ -"

"Hadvar, get back!" I screamed.

 _BOOM._

The ground shook.

"- _Diin_!"

Hadvar cried out as the frost hit him square in the chest even as I tugged him back against the wall of the shallow cavern. The ice hit me as well, but the biting sting of cold was nothing beside the crushing horror, thick in my throat and threatening to choke me; Hadvar had taken the brunt of the attack. The dragon's great maw poked through the sheet of water flooding over the opening, gnashing blindly for us as his ice breath continued to spiral forth.

Something snapped within me as I stood defending Hadvar and squinted at the clouds of dragon's breath flying toward us. It felt as though time had slowed down. The frost impacted against me; spread out over my armour, attempted climb into my chest and spear my heart. I could still hear Hadvar's cries through his clenched teeth, and the dragon's continued Shout, but the sounds were dimmed, or _behind_ me, was perhaps the only way I could describe it. Pushing Hadvar against the wall more resolutely with one outstretched palm, I reached down and drew his shortsword from his sheath with my other, ignoring the flakes of ice crusting over me, marking my armour and clothing and skin where it was exposed with its searing whiteness.

"Not yet," I growled out, but the words _ni nu_ reverberated within my throat instead. The voice was my own, but the alien words that curled off my tongue only served to disconnect me further from the fear and pain, and the rampaging beat of my own terrified, tiny, galloping heart. I charged for the still-visible mouth of the dragon. " _Hi fen ni lost rok_!" formed and left my mouth in a snarl, as I leapt at Nahagliiv.

The rain drenched me once more, pummelling forcefully against my back and head as I landed on his elongated snout and drove Hadvar's sword through the space between his dark, beady eyes; pushed deeper by momentum.

I gripped the sword handle fiercely and locked my legs around his muzzle as Nahagliiv rose and screamed furiously, tossing his head from side to side in an effort to throw me. The hard scales cut through my leggings and the flesh of my thighs as the dragon flailed and shuddered furiously.

" _Nid, dovahkiin!_ " Nahagliiv roared I despair. " _Hi nis du dii sil_!"

I could _hear_ the dragon's heart beating; a thumping echo within an enormous, dried out cavity; panicking, and alone – _so_ alone. The dragon's words were understood and no translation was offered by my own mind; Nahagliiv was afraid, because he knew that I had won, and that I would devour his soul, and he would never fly again.

On the edge of my awareness I noticed that the rain, and clouds, were thinning. The dragon crashed down onto the ground, and I braced myself against his snout and Hadvar's sword handle as the world shook. His wings flapped pitifully, or perhaps reflexively either side of him, but Nahagliiv did not rise or speak again.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on taking one breath after the other as the dragon stilled under me. I could hear little of the storm now, and voices fell to my ears; tiny and frantic.

I was being lifted. The dragon's scales tore at my legs as I was moved, and hot pain simmered through me. My eyes flew open in panic. Two men were dragging me off Nahagliiv.

I cried out for them to stop; the agony was too great.

" _Ni!_ "

The pair let go of me at once. Both appeared shocked by my vocalisation but I only caught their startled expressions for a second before I crashed down onto the sodden ground in front of Nahagliiv's enormous jaws. I landed hard on my forearms and knees, and grit my teeth in an effort to choke the scream trying to claw its way out of me. The golden glow of the dragon's soul swirled about me; the frenzied light churning into a vortex as it forced its way past my flesh and through my veins; it's target, my mind.

I gasped for air, pressing my forehead against the ground, clenching my eyes shut as the weight, the _burden_ of Nahagliiv's soul shoved at me, demanding that if I would have him, I must swallow him up in one great gulp, or be drowned by his presence.

My vision blurred with tears and I was both burning and blinded by the light – the exquisite, _terrible_ light. My heart thrummed, strained and panicked, and behind it all, I could feel _myself_ , beating against the confines of my own shell, begging me to get up and run into the rock hollow, to check that Hadvar was still breathing.

It was many moments before I could move, but when the lights faded, I heeded the plea, staggering to my feet amidst the foreign cries and shouts being chattered by the fluttering spectres rushing around me. I pushed past them, searching for Hadvar, because I recalled, as though it were a dream, that he had defended me with his honour and his life, and that he was _my_ chosen mate.

The warm, beating hearts of those between us quickened as their wide, glowing, expectant eyes observed me hurrying through the pools of light and shadow. The clumsy stumps I shifted upon throbbed and I could feel life-force draining from me with each pulse of my heart, though I was not afraid; they did not smell like fatal wounds.

Then I saw him, or at least recognised his prone form in the back of the shallow cave, his heart hammering brightly. He was being attended to by two more bright forms; one of which had a stream of golden energy flowing from their hands to him.

I allowed myself to relax; to pause. He was alive. His injuries were being taken care of. I closed my eyes as I sank to the ground with relief.

And I _came back_ , shuddering as I gasped in a breath of cool, tangy air. The brightness that had surrounded each man and woman that I had pushed past was gone. I felt heavier, as though my light, leather armour suddenly was too much for my frame to bear, and dizzy, as though I had been spinning on the spot a second ago. Soldiers were before me, lifting me to my feet, blocking the path back to Hadvar. But I had seen that he lived, even when I had been _behind_ , so I allowed the assistance. I leaned heavily on an offered arm. A second glance at he who helped me revealed it to be the arm of Dathies Woodharth.

"We need a mage here!" he shouted, before his concerned but somewhat frantic gaze veered down to flicker over me. "Your legs are cut up pretty bad, ma'am," he seemed to be talking very quickly.

I shook my head; saw stars as it swam. "I will be fine. Take me to Hadvar."

The officer looked confused; his brows furrowing. "You're bleeding heavily, and there's frostburn on your legs and neck that need seeing to quickly before it sets in. _He'll_ have my head if I don't have you seen to."

 _I'm injured,_ I wondered dimly? Yes. I knew that I had been injured, but it was as though Dathies' reminder of the fact kicked my pain receptors to life. Suddenly, with a force that pushed the air from my lungs, the cold burn and damp sting of every laceration and welt overwhelmed me, and the smell of irony blood – _my_ blood – flooded my senses, making me woozy.

"Whoa!" Dathies caught me before I crashed onto the ground, then lifted me effortlessly into his arms. "Come on, where's a healer?!" he bellowed to the throng of bodies rushing around us. "I've only got the _Dragonborn_ here, in need of assistance!"

"I'm here, I'm here!" a harried voice spoke up over the last of Dathies' tirade. "We can't be everywhere at once, you know!"

I blinked up into the face of the mage; a thin, Breton woman with dark hair plastered to her cheeks and forehead, drenched from the rain. I caught only a fleeting look at her, then her face was obscured by the golden glow of a healing spell.

Dazzled, I closed my eyes and just listened to their voices and the chiming, musical notes of her spell, as the pain coursing through me mercifully eased.

"Why did you jump onto the beast, _silly_ child," the restoration mage muttered.

"Watch your tongue!" Dathies fired back. "This _child_ just managed to do what the assembled Legion couldn't, and took the accursed beast down. We owe her our _lives_!"

"I didn't mean it like _that_ ," I could hear how the woman rolled her eyes, just from the tone of her voice. "I am as grateful as the next officer for our Lady Dragonborn's intervention," she added in a more respectful mutter.

Dathies made a _hmph_ sound.

"But I only mean," the healer added hastily, as though she couldn't help but speak her mind, "...that dragon could have swallowed her up in one gulp," she finished bleakly.

"Yes," Dathies agreed. It sounded as though his teeth were clenched. "Yet despite the risk, she leapt onto its head and drove her sword into its skull."

"It wasn't my sword," I mumbled dumbly.

There was a weighty pause, and the next thing the Breton said, in a more leisurely tone, was, "Do you think you can stand now, Lady Dragonborn? Your legs are fine, though I am having some trouble measuring your shock. Are...you in shock?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of _course_ she's in shock," Dathies grumbled.

At the same time, the spell that had enveloped me receded, and the woman, Dathies, and our surrounds swam back into view as I opened my eyes.

My vision was no longer clouded, and nor was the night's sky; Secunda cast its dim, greenish hue over the faces and valley before me once again. The small moon was about to set, which somehow made its light all the brighter. Masser was nowhere in sight; it must have set before we had left the Frostfruit. Above, there were no remaining traces of the hellish storm that Nahagliiv had unleashed; only the silently observant, twinkling stars.

The Breton mage who had healed me was wearing the lightest variety of Legion armour – all leathers and red material, and was watching me with calculating wariness. I assumed that it meant I was still under assessment, and did my best to compose myself.

My knees shook as Dathies eased me onto the ground.

"Thank you," I rested my hand on the soldier's arm, turning my eyes down to look at my feet. I took a tentative step. There was no pain, I was only a little wobbly. My eyes drifted from my booted feet, up to rest on my ruined leggings. They had been shredded when I had jumped onto the dragon's muzzle, and threads of dark material hung from me in tatters, framing the patches of dried blood and expanses of pink, new skin.

My stomach lurched as I realised very suddenly how close _I_ had come to dying.

 _But you're not dead. Neither is he._

Raising my head, I took a step toward the cave that Hadvar and I had both sheltered and trapped ourselves in, and faltered as my eyes roved the scene of destruction before me.

In the centre of it were the remains of Nahagliiv, with Hadvar's blade still embedded in his enormous, serpentine skull. The act of accepting the dragon's soul always seemed to strip it of its flesh, for some reason, and all that remained of the beast who had been wreaking havoc on the encampment minutes ago was his pale, shrivelled skeleton and a couple of scales that caught the light of the sinking, smaller moon.

As terrifying as this named dragon who had hunted me had been, I now felt a crushing sense of remorse at observing what it had become. He had sensed his fate, and in his death throes, Nahagliiv had feared me. The certainty with which I felt this was unsettling, for it spoke of a connection to these wyrms that, while I knew must have existed, I was frightened to acknowledge.

The dragon's skeleton was surrounded by a huge crowd of soldiers. A couple were actually in its ribcage, picking through the remnants of the creature, silently passing sections of smaller bone or scales to equally silent helpers standing outside of the beast.

Quite a few of those gathered had their eyes on me, but I was too strung out to feel embarrassed by their scrutiny; their wonder, fear, anxiety and... _reverence_.

I sensed that they expected _something_ of me, but my bard's training completely failed me before my audience. I looked upon Nahagliiv for a moment, _wanting_ say something, and still came up blank. Nothing I could say would be enough.

I turned away, and made for the cave.

Hadvar rushed out of it as I approached, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw me; his eyes raking over me in widened anxiety.

The sight of him standing – _walking –_ dispelled the void that had wanted to consume me, and I smiled as my heart glowed with utter relief. His assessment of me seemingly completed, his eyes met mine, and then he was running toward me, dodging the soldiers that stood between us. I hurried the final steps to him, throwing my arms around his neck and burying my head into his shoulder as his arms encircled me fiercely.

There was nothing to say – nothing we _needed_ to say. For minutes, though it could have been hours for all I cared, we held one another, and the Legion left us be, moving around us in the wake of the dragon's storm.

Hadvar eventually withdrew, just barely, to reposition himself so that his lips hovered over my ear.

"You saved me," he whispered; his voice carrying a depth of awe that made my heart flip in my chest.

I swallowed. "Now...we are even," I admitted quietly.

Hadvar breathed a disbelieving laugh into my hair. "Not a chance," he huffed; his voice thick with emotion.

"Hmm," I conceded, feeling lighter by his words, despite a lingering gravity that I sensed in him. I squeezed him more possessively, burrowing my face resolutely into his shoulder and breathing in the scent of him; there was sharp blood and earthy dirt and the bitter tang of the violent storm, but beyond those, there was only _him_. "I suppose you are right. I've probably ruined your sword."

With a genuine, much louder laugh, Hadvar pulled back to look down at me; his grin wide and his eyes bright. "Oh, I beg to differ," his hands pressed against the small of my back, securing me to him.

I returned his smile, in wonder of his playful manner in spite of all of the terror we had endured – _how did he always manage to do that?_ – and lifted my eyebrows at him for further explanation.

Flickering a hasty glance either side of us, he dipped his head, "That sword will be worth a fortune, once its known that the _Dragonborn_ used it to actually _slay_ a _dragon_ ," he teased. "I'd better go now, retrieve it before someone else-"

"Hey!" an inexplicable laugh burst from me and I pushed against his shoulder. "Might I remind you, _Praefect_ , that we are soon to be married?" I asked pointedly; my eyes shining as I played along. "What's yours is mine," I posed loftily.

Hadvar ducked his head, his amusement shifting into something calmer, fonder, but no less merry. "I can live with that," he murmured, then dipped down to capture my lips in a warm, tender kiss that I sank into with utter contentment, for it felt like coming home.

–

Eventually Secunda sank below the horizon, and the night and its people calmed. Our task prior to the dragon descending on the camp came back to Hadvar and I, and with very audible sighs, we made for the General's tent.

Surely, the matter of my sister escaping her Legion prison would now be a simple one, I reasoned. The dragon attack had distanced me from everything else that I had to face, and I wagered that General Tullius would feel the same way. For once, she had caused nobody's death; Lydia was in the camp somewhere, recovering from the paralysis spell, and I felt certain that Giselle would be sighted in Stormcloak's presence within a few days.

I found that the idea of her standing beside Ulfric once again could not bring me down at that moment. Perhaps it was naïve of me to consider the dragons a greater threat than Stormcloak and his fanatics, for both were equally dangerous and formidable in their own rights. Perhaps it was merely the after effects of absorbing Nahagliiv's soul that made me feel less panicked about her escape.

Whatever the reason for my new-found composure, when I entered General Tullius' tent with my hand twined in Hadvar's, I had not expected the old soldier to glance up hastily from his war table, lock eyes with me for a second, and then _bow_ on one knee to me.

I stilled, watching as all who stood in his expansive tent followed his lead.

"I am a fiend for ever doubting you, Lady Dragonborn," he droned, lifting his head, though he didn't rise. "I am not sure I deserve forgiveness for my discourtesy, even if you have the will to grant it."

" _General_ ," I muttered awkwardly, hastily, casting Hadvar a glance before detangling my hand and hurrying forward. My cheeks blushed as I stopped before General Tullius and held my hands out. "Please, this is unnecessary. Any in your position would have assumed I played a part in my sister's escape."

"He knows it wasn't you," Lydia's droll tone cut through the tent.

I whirled around to locate my housecarl before the General had been able to take my hands. " _Lydia_!"

She was sitting at the table off to the side of the tent; a mirror of the one that was in my quarters. She held a cloth bundle to her head and wore a knowing, yet exasperated look. "Fighting dragons again without me, little one?" she questioned lightly.

"Not by choice!" I burst out. The General and his officers were forgotten as I tore across the room and embraced Lydia where she was sat. "By the _Gods_ , Lydia. She could have _killed_ you."

Lydia patted me on the back with one hand; the other still holding what appeared to be ice wrapped in a towel to her temple. "No, she couldn't have. Not with her hands bound."

I sat back, searching Lydia's eyes for answers. "So, she had help?"

Lydia's lips curled ironically, then she winced.

"You're injured," I voiced the obvious and frowned; my concern for my friend greater than my need to know the particulars of Giselle's escape at that moment. "Why haven't they summoned a restoration mage?" I asked in a louder voice.

Lydia shook her head, her brows lifting as she smirked. "Some perspective, Celeste. A dragon just attacked the camp. This is a headache; nothing some ice and a potion or two won't fix. Or some sleep," she huffed ruefully.

I huffed with her. " _Tell_ me about it."

The General reminded us of his presence by clearing his throat, and when I glanced at him I saw that he had finally risen.

"What your housecarl says is correct, Lady Dragonborn," he gave me a curt nod. "Those in Giselle's tent didn't see much, as might have been the intention of those who came for her," he grimaced, giving the soldiers around him a hasty glance. "But each saw enough to knit together who it was."

Realising that amongst the soldiers in the tent must have been those who had guarded my sister, and been paralysed with my housecarl, I stood tall, turning to face him properly. "And?" I prompted. "Was it Stormcloak?"

His lips curled into a snarl. "Unfortunately not," he grumbled reluctantly.

I crossed my brows at him and wondered what could possibly be _unfortunate_ about Giselle's saviour not being the enemy of the Empire.

Lydia didn't share his caution, and sighed laboriously. "It was the Thalmor," she said bluntly.

My head whipped back around to face her; her revelation silencing me. A vision of Lydia, Farkas and I tossing the pale Altmer bodies into the river rose within me. Why would _they_ come for _Giselle_? She knew nothing of Delphine.

Hadvar posed the obvious. "But...we are allied with the Thalmor," he said in a tense voice. "Why would they _attack_ us to extract her?"

"Mm hmm," the General sounded unimpressed. "Why indeed?"

"I mean," he pressed on reasonably, "if they had questions to ask her, they would only need ask-"

Tearing my eyes from Lydia's, I looked at the other soldiers in the tent. "What happened...exactly?" I swallowed, trying to suppress my rising guilt. "What did you...see, and hear?"

It was the General who answered again, sighing as he lifted his hand up to rub at his temples. "Had I taken statements earlier, I would not have concerned you in this matter, Lady Dragonborn," he lowered his hand, squaring me with tired, stern eyes.

He was not frustrated _with_ me, though – that much was clear. I frowned. "She's my sister. I'm _concerned_ regardless of who has her. If she has been _kidnapped_ -"

"They are our _allies_. A retrieval is out of the question," the General cut me off, turning away in frustration and resting his hands on the table.

I watched him closely and experienced a dreadful sinking feeling when he refused to elaborate. Nobody in the tent could truly believe what he had said, but none were stupid enough to voice what everybody knew. The alliance between the Empire and Aldmeri Dominion had always been tenuous.

Eventually, he glanced up to the roof of the canvas tent. "You should return to your quarters, and try to get some rest. You've had a... _busy_ day, to say the least," he bit out, somewhat regretfully.

"General," I stepped swiftly toward his table, speaking loudly and clearly as I stood opposite him and rested my hands on the table to meet him, propelled by a sudden urgency to understand at least _this_ riddle. "Why would the Thalmor take my sister?"

He grimaced as his eyes flickered to me. "I don't know," he answered flatly.

"What did they do, then? Why did they paralyse her guards and Lydia?" I fired. "What Hadvar said is true – as allies, they could have stepped into that tent and simply asked for her! Why take her in such a manner-!?"

"I _don't know_."

"Celeste," Hadvar cut in quickly, and I registered that he was standing by my side. His hand fell to my arm, and I glanced up to him swiftly, startling at the contact.

His tone was cautious. "I'll...take you back to your quarters."

"What? No," I muttered as I swiftly turned back to the General. "I want to know what happened – I have a _right_ to know. Perhaps you are mistaken – perhaps the Stormcloaks disguised themselves as Thalmor, to throw us off their trail and cause dissent amongst those who remain true to the White-Gold Concordat," I reached.

"They didn't," the General whipped his head up; his response a rough bark. "Miss Passero," his tone was even; his eyes flickered to Hadvar's hand on my arm, which had tensed at the General's initial shout. He paused; seemed to heavily consider what he was about to say, then his gaze swerved back up, to meet mine.

There was no room for argument, or even compromise, in his tone or his eyes. "I urge you to forget that you had a sister, for your own sake, the sake of the name Passero, and the sake of the living whose lives you value. If what my officers and your housecarl have told me tonight is true, then I very much doubt any of us will see Giselle Passero again."

My heart clenched in my chest; I took an unconscious step back. Hadvar was there, holding me up. I shook my head, fumbling for words. "This is _ridiculous_ ," I managed.

"Had she remained with the Legion," the General went on as though I hadn't uttered a sound, "she would have stood a very public trial, and then undergone a very public execution before the week was out – a circus of events that would have dragged _your_ name through the dirt again," the General continued, sounding as though he was trying to justify his inaction to himself. "I am very...sorry, that the situation has escalated," he added, turning away in abject defeat. "I offer you condolences, on behalf of the Empire."

I moved to speak again but no words came to mind and I stilled, my mouth partially open. I felt the will to fight the General draining out of me as I understood that he, truly, had no answers for me, or authority to act if the Thalmor were involved. I sank back against Hadvar, lowering my eyes.

"Understood," I managed quietly, though that was far from the truth.

When Hadvar led me from the General's tent shortly after, we were followed by Lydia and another detail of soldiers, numbering this time somewhere in the twenties. I understood at once that their presence was the General's attempt to ensure that I not be spirited away in what was left of the night, too.

Lydia walked close by my side, still holding the towel to her head. After inspecting my latest 'honour' guard with a vague sense of unease, I turned to her imploringly.

"What did you see?" I found myself asking. "Why would they come for my sister? She knows nothing of..." I trailed off; she would know who I meant. "And why would they _paralyse_ you?"

Lydia shrugged and winced again. "I can tell you this much; the paralysis spell was for her, not us. We were simply collateral. Had they wanted her dead, we would all be dead."

" _What_?!"

"Giselle saw them enter the tent," Lydia continued dispassionately. "She was the only one who faced the entryway. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, the paralysis spell hit us, and her face was frozen, contorted in horror. I was brushed aside, like an inconvenient leaf on a branch," she muttered darkly. "Hit my head on a chair, on the way to the ground. They were very...precise," she sighed in frustration.

"By the _Eight_ ," Hadvar murmured by my side. "Did they...say anything?"

"No," Lydia pressed definitively, fixing both of us with a hard glance. "I do not want us to think more on this until we have _all_ had some rest," she murmured. "That's enough, all right? You both did good today."

I felt too vague of mind to fight her, and it was easy enough to accept her orders. I nodded dully and felt Hadvar do the same as I rested my head on his arm. We continued on through the rows of darkened tents, some of which bore bright, stiff patches of dried frost from the dragon, that would not melt until the sun rose; if at all.

–

When we arrived at my quarters, our escort surrounded the exterior of the tent, and Hadvar insisted on taking watch with them. Lydia crossly reminded him that he was off duty, and suggested he climb into a bedroll with me so that I wouldn't catch cold.

He admitted he was too tired to argue with her, and Lydia threw him some clean clothes from the supplies chest then staggered off to the other side of the tent, to set up her own bed.

I listened from the bedroll I had already climbed into, aware of every soft clank of armour and dull rustle of cloth as Hadvar changed. Then he stepped around the canvas screen wearing a look so vulnerable that my heart clenched. Quietly, solemnly, he climbed in beside me. His tired eyes had dark circles underneath them, but they remained watchful of mine while we shuffled about to get comfortable, then relaxed, wordlessly grateful for the solace of the other. He caressed my waist a few times, feather-light, and we just lay there holding one another, blinking wearily. After such a tumultuous day, it was befuddling to finally relax, and I wondered if I might be dreaming that Hadvar was with me.

He kissed me softly, _achingly_ gentle as though he worried he might break me, and then sighed quietly and pulled back to rest his nose against mine, closing his eyes as he settled.

No; this was real – _he_ was real. Where might the night have led us, had it not exploded into chaos? I could feel that Hadvar was wondering the same as he drifted off.

It was too much to think of after all that had happened, and tomorrow it wouldn't matter. We had pledged to go to Riften, to the Temple of Mara. But it was difficult not to feel regret for what might have been _now_ , seeing as we were borrowing time before I left for High Hrothgar.

I was aching with weariness, but my mind would not rest, insisting I try to explain what had happened with Nahagliiv. The appearance of an exceptionally strong dragon with a _name_ had brought how little I understood of my role into sharper relief than ever, though I had ultimately, inexplicably, been the one to bring him down. During this encounter, both before I had leapt onto the dragon and after Nahagliiv's soul had forced its way into me, I could have sworn that _something_ had stepped up and taken charge of the situation - charge of _me_. It was a fearful thought, but I was confused about what it was that I feared, too, and found that I couldn't summon the right words to explain either what I had experienced, or what I now felt. I had been aware of what I was doing and in control of my actions, but I had also been separate, trapped _behind_ myself, watching as I moved and blinked and breathed.

Was every day like this for Vilkas and Farkas? Was this what it was to share one's soul? But no – _sharing_ was the wrong descriptor. Many tales told of the Dragonborn's spirit being that _of_ a dragon, and after confronting myself today, perhaps it really was? Perhaps what had stepped forward had always been a part of me, appearing when required but otherwise waiting patiently to be realised, like the extra octave of singing range Dean Ateia's tutelage had coaxed out of me. She had told me my potential to reach those notes had always been within me; I had merely needed the guidance and confidence to access them. Perhaps the Greybeards would offer similar training, so that this exotic, unfamiliar piece of me might feel as natural as my music did, some day in the future. That did not sound so formidable.

The _presence_ had reacted when Hadvar had been in danger. _Hi fen ni lost rok_ , I had screamed before driving Hadvar's sword into Nahagliiv's skull, never hesitating to question if what I was doing was right or wrong, or even possible. _I_ had reacted intuitively, and it seemed that I could not only understand the language of the dragons, but speak it fluently, if I didn't think about doing it.

As I recalled the words I had yelled, and watched Hadvar resting peacefully in my arms, the translation that had not been required at the time slipped through my mind in a whisper;

 _You will not have him._

With a sigh, I lowered my head, pressing my forehead to Hadvar's chest. He echoed my sigh in his sleep as he shifted an arm to encircle me, drawing my body to rest against his.

While my questions were still unanswered, from the security of his hold I felt at peace, and joined him in a deep, dreamless sleep within minutes.

When I woke, hours later, calm and snug with a weight resting across my waist, I could just make out the sounds of activity in the distance.

I remembered where I was as my eyes grew accustomed to the dull greyness of predawn.

A tent, in the Imperial Legion camp at Rorikstead. And the warmth, now at my back, was Hadvar pressed against me. I must have turned while we slept, though it felt as though no time had passed at all.

Yet it was morning; the tent had been dark when we had settled, and now all was lighter, though still largely colourless. My head throbbed a little, but otherwise, I felt fine; refreshed, even.

I shifted, turning gingerly to face him, not wishing to wake the slumbering soldier, but longing to look at him. He stirred as I shuffled, but once I had settled, he relaxed again.

I closed my eyes, burrowing into his chest, and listened to the noises of the world beyond us, now accompanied by the steady _thump-thump_ of Hadvar's heart that travelled to me more as a feeling, than a sound. Outside, voices called, metal clanked, and the slow clop of horse's hooves occasionally sounded. The Legion were packing up camp.

 _You should get up and help them,_ I told myself. Immediately, I held Hadvar closer, determined to ignore the prompt.

When Hadvar's hand drifted lazily down my back, then up again, I realised I must have woken him after all. My lips curved into a small smile, and warmth flowered in my chest. He shuddered under my touch when my fingers danced over his arm and smoothed gently along his shoulder blade.

His hand casually dipped under my tunic and continued its leisurely path across my waist, and I was entranced, powerless to repress a small ripple of desire. The pads of his fingers felt rough against the sensitive skin of my side and belly, but his touches were light, and gentle.

This was certainly a nice way to wake up. I lifted my chin and brushed my lips against his jaw.

"Good morning," I whispered. Following his lead, I drifted under his tunic and drew curling patterns on his back with the tips of my fingers.

He made a small, pleased noise as he lowered his head to meet my lips, moving against mine with relaxed abandon. After moment he shuffled down a bit, clutched at my waist and deepened the kiss, and I unwittingly echoed his sound, tugging him closer. Each moment fuelled a fire that rose and built as we continued to explore each other, and as our kiss intensified, his touches grew bolder; more purposeful; grazing my ribcage as his fingers brushed the underside of my unbound breast.

" _Hadvar_ ," I moaned quietly against his lips, trembling as I met his eyes.

"Celeste," he stared; pupils large and eyes clouded, _yearning_. His hand wandered down; circled my hip. "Do you understand what you do to me when you say my name like that?"

My heartbeat quickened and fluttered under his stormy gaze, thrumming with anticipation. I kissed him again, deep and longing; my fingertips brushed up through the space between us, lingering along his collarbone. "Show me," I gasped between kisses, breathless. "Hadvar, _show_ me," I urged.

He groaned and closed his fingers, pulling me toward him as he rolled and arched over me. With his weight on one arm, he leaned down and kissed me hungrily, pushing his hips against my leg with a muted rush of air that might have been a small grunt. His hard length knocked against me through our clothes, and I flushed with desire at the feel of him, _wanting_ me. Fumbling to hold him, impatient with longing, my fingers laced through the hair at the back of his neck and I decided that _yes_ , this was _right_.

So when he lifted his head to break our scorching kiss, I leant up with him, trying to coax his lips back to mine.

He shook his head in exasperation.

"What are we doing?" he hissed urgently, nodding across the room as he supported himself on his hands, still hovered over me. "Your housecarl is _right_ there."

I stilled; my flushed cheeks _burned._ I had forgotten about Lydia. I met Hadvar's apologetic eyes in regret as we paused and each clawed our way back from the precipice we had lumbered towards. I tried to convince myself that he was right to stop us, but a potent disappointment flowed through me. Our timing was _terrible_.

Hadvar looked so regretful that I longed to say something, anything to ease his – _our_ – misfortune. I made an effort to take measured breaths, for each came laboured, and finally was calm enough to speak. "Given our history, it's likely that someone from the Imperial Legion will burst into our tent at any moment. _Or_ a dragon."

He laughed quietly, and at the sight of his relieved grin my heart blazed with yearning and I was powerless against his call. I craned up; kissed his jaw once, twice. His laugh turned into a quiet cry of restraint as I continued to kiss slowly down his neck.

" _Celeste_ ," he muttered in earnest; a desperate hiss.

"All _right_ ," I sighed, pouting as I lay back; my eyes danced with cheekiness. "You owe me," I whispered tauntingly.

The desire in his eyes intensified and my heart thudded, certain that I had crossed some line and he was going to kiss me again, consequences be damned. But he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, then slowly eased himself off me.

"A debt I intend to pay in full," he squirmed and stretched in an attempt to get comfortable again. "With interest," he added shortly after, with a bit of a laboured groan.

"Good," I giggled, turning onto my side to watch as he tried to find enough room in the bedroll for both of us. "And not in some _dodgy_ pub in Riften," I teased, shifting closer to him, settling on his chest as he lay back. I glanced up to find his eyes, and added in afterthought; "Somewhere...private."

 _Somewhere special,_ I wanted to say, though I feared even he might laugh at me for making such a big deal out of this...this _build up._ Hadvar was five years my senior, and it was plain that I was not his first woman given the confident, purposeful way he touched me, and his control, his _logic_ when it came to the appropriate time and place for intimacy. A man with less experience would have been more desperate, more frantic, and not been able to exhibit such restraint. But as he was to be my first – and _last_ – the idealistic romantic within me longed for our first time to be memorable.

Hadvar tilted his head, looking down to me; his eyes full of tender devotion. "Yes," he agreed. "Somewhere...special," he whispered pensively, before he brushed his lips against my forehead.

 _Well,_ I laughed at myself as snuggled into his chest to hide my flush and insuppressible smile. _There was no point in worrying about that now, was there?_

All was pleasant and serene for a few minutes, but regrettably, the memories of the previous day crept back into the forefront of my mind. I realised that it was _guilt_ snaking through me, for allowing myself to momentarily smother what had occurred with the warmth and comfort of the man beside me.

The war for Whiterun. The encounter with Nahagliiv. All my sister had told me, or not told me, as it was. The Thalmor, inexplicably stealing her out of the Empire's custody.

I had been mad at my sister for so long that I was alarmed by the fierceness of my distress as I recalled what Lydia had told me on the journey from the General's tent. Giselle had seen those who had come for her, and she had _feared_ them, and they had paralysed _her_. Just as the Thalmor had paralysed me, when they had come for me on the journey home from Windhelm.

Did she possess information that the Thalmor wanted to draw from her? Undoubtedly so, given her closeness to Stormcloak. Which meant that – I made myself face the reality – she would undergo severe questioning, and torture, for as long as it took the Thalmor to take what they wanted from her.

I shuddered in Hadvar's arms, clenching my eyes closed and reaching for an alternative fate for my twin. Perhaps the Thalmor wanted her because she was Ulfric's woman. Perhaps they hoped to use her, as bait to get him to back off and lay down arms. Perhaps she would come out of this alive, after all, if Stormcloak's feelings for her were greater than his ambition to be High King.

The prospect was bleak and unlikely, but, _was_ it possible? I had stood before Ulfric myself and though it mortified me to recall it, I had experienced his hunger; the strength of his passions, while he had believed me to be my sister. How had she managed it; _how_ had _she_ found a way to render one of the most powerful men in Skyrim _vulnerable_? And how would his attachment to her affect his judgement? If the Thalmor threatened her, would he bend to their will? Had he already learned of her fate, and deployed a team to liberate her?

Hadvar sighed underneath me, brushing his hand across my shoulder and down my back softly. " _We drink to our youth, to days come and gone_ ," he sang quietly; his voice thick and attractively untrained, carrying an amused, cautious lilt.

I breathed a laugh. "I'm here," I turned up to regard him. Was _that_ , of all songs, _really_ going to become _our_ song?

He smiled warmly and squeezed my waist. "So. Riften?" he asked hopefully, lifting his eyebrows.

I nodded and smiled back as I pushed aside my tension. Whatever Giselle's future held; _she_ was responsible for it, and I would _not_ let her destroy this precious journey Hadvar and I were about to take.

"Riften," I confirmed quietly.


	45. Stolen Time

_Chapter 45: Stolen Time_

* * *

 _A/n: disclaimer - there's some M-rated stuff ahead. I think. I don't understand ratings._

* * *

Of course, Hadvar and I could not just waltz off to Riften as we liked. We were not _eloping_ , and so the people who relied on and cared about us needed to be made aware of our intentions.

When Hadvar had left me that morning to put in his request for leave, I had risen shortly after, ridiculously nervous in anticipation of Tullius' response. What would we do if he _declined_ the request?

 _Irrelevant_ , I consoled myself. I collected my armour and clothing, which had been strewn around the tent in an effort to dry out the night before. _Either the General will approve Hadvar's leave and you will go to Riften, or he won't, and you will spend a week in Whiterun together._

I was of two minds about this notion; that either way, Hadvar and I would be together now, and either way, at week's end, I would have to leave him. Whether we were wed would not make the farewell any easier.

To avoid thinking about the inevitable departure, I directed my thoughts back to the now. The General must have known that placing Hadvar in Whiterun would advance our relationship, for I had made no secret of the fact that I considered it to be my home, and we had made no efforts to hide our affections.

A new idea unfolded; perhaps he had _counted_ on it when he had promoted Hadvar. Yes, Hadvar had certainly been elevated for his deeds and merits performed within the army, as the Empire would not appoint anyone who could not fulfil a task given them. But what if the General had considered the convenience of Hadvar and I being frequently, publicly seen together when he had decided where he was to be stationed?

Now that the false Dragonborn rumour was on the brink of being squashed, for there was no denying whose side I had been on the previous day, the General might have decided that I could aid their cause in an indirect sort of way. The Dragonborn's devotion to a soldier in the Imperial army could only rally support for the Empire.

Once presented, I was certain that it had to be true, but I found that I did not mind. I was aware of an irony to my nonchalance; I had been furious when the name _Dragonborn_ had been used to rally support for the Stormcloaks. But when faced with the prospect of the General using me to similar ends, I did not feel fazed, and there were no secrets as to why; it did not involve siding with the man who had been responsible for the murder of my parents. It aligned with my views, my father's views, and there was no deception or impersonation involved. Furthermore, I was getting what I wanted out of the arrangement – time with Hadvar – and if it meant that I wasn't going to be pressed into joining the Legion for myself, all the better.

I held my padded undertunic at arms-length and wrinkled my nose at it. It was still soggy from the drenching Nahagliiv's storm had given it. I stared beyond the fabric, unable to help but shudder as memories flooded me; the dark, cold night, the pummelling rain, the hiss of dragon tongue slicing through my mind even as Nahagliiv's razor-sharp scales sawed through my thighs. Had I really _slain_ a _dragon_ a few hours ago? It felt as though I was recalling some surreal nightmare.

 _It happened_ , I insisted, trying to shove my unease aside. _Now, look ahead. You are travelling to Riften to wed Hadvar. Remember only_ _ **this**_ _._

I placed the padded tunic over the back of one of the chairs. I did not want to put my armour over the top of _that_ , and my leggings had been destroyed, so I knelt before the supplies chest and dug around for something I could borrow.

 _Yes_ , I continued musing as I extracted an ankle-length, plain tunic-dress, for it seemed to be the only outfit in the chest that might fit me. _If the General is hoping to associate the Dragonborn with the Legion, then he will approve Hadvar's leave. To legitimise our union in the eyes of the Divines will further strengthen the alliance, to their mind, and after I have gone, the Dragonborn's **husband** will be the Legion's representative for Whiterun. _

Lydia woke while I was putting on my armour. She sleepily joined me and helped fasten the clasps down the side of the chestpiece, which actually gave some form to the dress. In fact, in this context, my Thane's armour looked and felt more like a long, elaborate corset, and I was reminded of the first time I had sighted it in my chambers in Dragonsreach, assembled on the mannequin over the red, silk dress, when I had, in my ignorance, assumed it to be ceremonial.

I smiled fondly. Alvor had woven such a subtle versatility into the pieces. Had he known that I would need to wear it in such a variety of scenarios; from battlegrounds, to Jarl's dinner parties? Possibly. I reminded myself to write and thank him for it, and to pay him for his jewellery, for I had not found the time to do either yet.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?" Lydia yawned widely.

Leaning away a little to counter the tug she gave one of the ties, my smile persisted. Because Hadvar and I had been...blissfully preoccupied. And then, we had been planning our day in hushed voices; discussing who we would need to tell before we left, plotting the fastest course to Riften, pondering where we might stay along the way if we had to stop for the night. We had been planning our wedding. I all but glowed at the summation.

My smile must have betrayed secrecy, for Lydia's eyes narrowed a little, and as the fog of sleep cleared from her vision she regarded me suspiciously. "What's going on?" she asked cautiously.

A gentle laugh escaped me and I turned to face her, unable to contain my merriment any longer. I grasped one of her hands and squeezed it. "Hadvar and I are going to Riften," I revealed through a grin that I could not have suppressed if I had wanted to.

Lydia uttered a little squeak of shock and her free hand clapped to her mouth to muffle it as her eyes widened.

I laughed at her reaction, lowering my eyes as a flush rose to pink my cheeks. "He's gone to the General to request leave. We mean to set out today."

" _Celeste_!" she embraced me swiftly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I hugged her back and closed my eyes, grateful for her presence and gleeful response. _This is right_ , I told myself joyfully. "We only decided last night for ourselves," I admitted through another laugh.

"Oh, little one," she pulled back, her voice thick and overcome. She placed her hands on my shoulders as she ducked down to my level, and her eyes shone with unspent emotion. "Good. I am _so_ _proud_ of you – of both of you," she added quickly. "When you find love, you _must_ seize it."

My response was a bittersweet smile, and I was surprised to find that I was close to tears as well. I didn't feel a reply was necessary; we both knew of what, or rather who she meant, and my nod seemed to be enough for Lydia, too.

She raised herself to her full height, and swiftly wiped her eyes as she cleared her throat. "So, you leave today – you'll arrive in Riften tomorrow, yes?"

I nodded. "Or maybe tonight," I posed. "It depends on the General, and the Jarl, and how long they keep us," my eyes widened. "And, I will need to tell Farkas and Vilkas where I am going. Oh, and Hadvar's family – we will need to send word to Riverwood-"

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. "I can take care of that for you," she cut in.

I crossed my brows, and she reminded me. "I mean to go to Riverwood today, for Lucia. But," she lifted her eyebrows, "it will be no trouble to bring them all with me, instead."

I was still a bit confused; it was as though Lydia was speaking her thoughts aloud and I was missing half of her internal conversation. " _Bring_ them?"

Again she nodded. After a pause; "To Riften," she laughed in the face of my confusion. "I wouldn't miss your marriage for all the wealth in Skyrim, and I daresay that Alvor and Sigrid will feel the same about their nephew."

" _Oh_ ," I finally understood, and my flush returned when I realised how dense I had been. Of course, our loved ones would want to be there to celebrate our union! I giggled a little as I imagined what Dorthe's reaction might be to the news, and the chance to journey south.

"So, once Hadvar has returned and confirmed that he is _officially_ on leave, for the General would be a _fool_ to deny him and risk incurring your wrath, _and_ mine," Lydia sounded lofty as she stepped away, making for her bedroll, "I will make for Riverwood. Once you have cleared the way with the Jarl and Vilkas, send a courier to tell us when you think you might arrive in Riften. If I can get them on the night time coach, we might reach Riften by morning," she flickered me a quick glance, as she knelt and started to roll her bed up. "So. We _will_ be there. That is a _promise_. Don't get married without us, okay?"

I bit my bottom lip in an effort to contain my excitement, which had filled me like a bubble that felt as though it was about to burst. I nodded.

Lydia grinned, and together we finished packing our belongings, then sat to breakfast. Hadvar returned shortly after we had started eating, and I rose without realising I had done it, staring at him in a sudden fit of anxious hope.

With a smile he crossed the tent and grasped both of my hands. "It's done. I'm all yours, for a week," he murmured through a relieved smile.

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realised I had been holding and stared down at our joined hands, my eyes yet again welling with tears. "And I yours," I managed, squeezing my eyes closed in an effort to stave off my overwhelming relief.

My housecarl crashed through the tender moment by hugging and congratulating Hadvar, and then she raced to her gear and shouldered her backpack and bow. "Remember what you have promised me," she said pointedly as she rushed back to my side and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "Travel safe, and see you soon."

Hadvar seemed baffled by Lydia's haste and words, but she was gone before he was able to put any questions to her. He turned to me, lifting an eyebrow. "I...take it you told her of our intentions?" he asked a little uncertainly.

The bewildered look on his face was adorable, and I giggled as I faced him and stood on my toes, winding my arms around his neck. "Yes," I whispered joyfully, nudging his nose with mine. "I want everyone to know. I want to...to stand on every mountaintop between here and Riften, and shout it to the breeze, so the whole of Skyrim might know it," I confessed in a rush.

Hadvar's stormy-grey eyes misted as his hands caressed my waist to settle on my hips, and his confusion shifted into something softer. "Hmm," the considering hum rumbled at the back of his throat. "Lady Dragonborn," he murmured onto my lips, "that might take a _little_ more time than we currently have at our disposal, should you wish to reach Riften before week's end."

I laughed again, and he chuckled with me before he kissed me softly.

The kiss was brief. He withdrew with evident hesitance, as though his thoughts had been suddenly captured, and he searched my eyes wearing a faraway expression.

I looked up to him, and found myself unable to say anything either. I realised with a sudden thud to my chest that we were _finally_ alone, and the look in Hadvar's eyes made me wonder if he had realised the same thing, at the same moment.

"We should..." he faltered, biting his bottom lip as his hands flexed, firmly planted on my hips.

"Yes, we should..." I heard myself agree softly, but felt distanced from my own voice. With a flush, I wondered what I had just agreed to?

He nodded, glancing over my shoulder, toward the exit to the tent. "We might be delayed for some time in Whiterun," he cleared his throat. "Are you packed? We should..." he said again, trailing off as his gaze drifted back to me.

I watched him closely for a moment as I wound my fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. "Go?" I hazarded.

"Yes," he replied in a rush, nodding again for emphasis. With a final squeeze, Hadvar released me and took a step back. His nodding continued. "We should definitely...go."

Sighing, I turned away. Of course, he was right. We had a lot to do, if we wanted to present ourselves to the Temple of Mara tomorrow. "I'm prepared," I reached for my backpack.

"May I?" Hadvar was beside me, holding his hand out.

I glanced from his hesitant expression to his outstretched palm, and when I looked back up to his face, he optimistically half-smiled. "Let me?"

Realising that he wished to carry my bag for me, I blinked, embarrassed by how long it had taken me to understand him. "Oh – I'm sorry – no, thank you – there's no need," I fumbled for words. "I'm quite used to the weight-"

"Celeste," he laughed, and the ease at which he took my hand calmed my racing heart. I closed my mouth to keep from stumbling over any more words, and waited, watching him.

The half smile grew, reaching his eyes. "From this day forth, we are sworn to carry each other's burdens. Let me?" he asked again, softer this time.

I lifted an eyebrow but relinquished my pack, as it seemed to be important to him. "I'm not sure the priests mean for that vow to be taken so literally."

"We can ask them of the intended meaning personally," he shouldered my bag, jostling it a little before he reached his hand out for mine. "Tomorrow. Before our _wedding_ ," he lifted his eyebrows pointedly.

Any uncertainty I felt over allowing him to carry my bag for me fled, to be replaced by the increasingly familiar rush of excitement as I placed my hand in his.

We were _really_ _doing_ _this_.

We borrowed horses to hasten our return to Whiterun, and were accompanied by the twenty officers who had walked from the General's tent with us the previous night. I had told them that their presence was no longer necessary, but Hadvar had intervened, explaining quietly as we had prepared to mount up that the General was sending a delegation of soldiers to Whiterun in the wake of the battle to assist with repairs and clean up, and that these men and women were part of that detail.

"We are merely riding _with_ them," he had added with a smile.

Being focused on our union all morning, his reminder of the battle for Whiterun silenced me, and we rode at too fast a pace to speak any more on it.

 _The battle is over,_ I told myself again and again. The morning breeze and our swiftness whipped my hair out of its braid and flapped the bunched-up skirt of the tunic-dress against my exposed knees and thighs. _The battle is_ _ **won**_ _._

As we neared the city, I understood that the term 'won' could be subjective.

The outer walls had been pummelled. There was more crumbled stone littering the earth than wall remaining standing. The inner wall had been punctured in several places, but appeared to at least be holding its form, at this time.

The ground was cluttered with death and the earth had been churned, as though taken to by a plough harnessed to a horse driven mad, marked with holes and gouges, boot prints, hand prints and impressions of prone bodies. There were also swathes of the living amongst the dead – grim-faced soldiers and priests from the Temple of Kynareth – working silently to line the deceased up in rows and collect personal effects to be organised and returned to their loved ones.

The workers had already cleared the road, but nothing could mask the odour of so much blood; not even the chill air. Nahagliiv's storm had not reached Whiterun, and so rock, earth and wood alike was stained with a deep, warm reddish-brown.

I wished at once that I had the ability to use Nahagliiv's call; that I could Shout _Strun Bah Qo_ to the calm skies, so that I might wash the scene clean.

Once we reached the stables, Hadvar spoke. He wasn't speaking to me, so I didn't pay much attention to what he said, and the soldiers that had ridden with us departed. I watched them walking away, and knew that it was the last I would see of them, for they were to assist those already working to clear the land around the city, whereas I was to...

I grimaced. How could I leave now, when there was so much to do? How could I even _entertain_ the notion of running off to Riften, let alone making for High Hrothgar? Was I truly so selfish – is that how I wanted to be remembered by the people of Whiterun?

Hadvar took my hand and helped me to dismount, breaking me free of my thoughts.

I hadn't even realised that I had still been atop the borrowed Legion mare. Feeling nauseous, I stared at him, wanting to say something, but words would not come, no matter how I grappled for them.

He said nothing too, but his expression was regretful, and grim.

 _Of course_ , I told myself. _Hadvar has seen this all before_. The understanding seemed to double my nausea, and I turned away and took a single, wavering step.

He offered me his arm, and I grasped it firmly for fear of falling if I didn't. He led me through the destruction and made for the main gate.

I glanced up as we passed under the gate house that had been my post only the _previous day_. Part of it still stood, but a large chunk of stonework was now missing.

Shuddering as a chill rippled along my spine, I turned my eyes back to the road ahead, and felt Hadvar give my hand a supportive squeeze.

I found my voice. "Are you sure we should be doing this?" I asked him regretfully.

He didn't reply, but when I glanced sideways, he was shaking his head; his eyes on the city above us. "I don't know," he owned quietly. "Maybe we _should_ stay. Help here, however we can," he sighed, turning his eyes toward me. He gave me a sorrowful look and half shrugged. "It would be cruel of me to steal you from them at a time like this."

My stomach clenched at the prospect of _not_ spending this week with Hadvar; of the hours slipping away as we toiled on the repair efforts, or whatever task the Jarl assigned to us. I shook my head in frustration. "If the General can spare you for a week, then surely the Jarl can spare me," I told him; convinced myself. "I am but one woman," I bit out.

He said nothing again, and I began to fear that he would call the wedding off; that his loyalty to the cause, and his _humanity_ , would win over my desire for us to marry before I left. And truthfully, if he did ask us to wait now, I could not fault him.

Nonetheless, I silently pleaded with the Divines that it would not be so. I was going to have to leave them _all_ soon, anyway; surely this brief, final moment could be _mine._

We approached Whiterun proper amidst looks of wariness and awe from the soldiers manning the gate, and they hailed us with polite welcomes as we walked through.

I let out a sigh of relief when I looked over the city within as the gates were closed behind us. The walls had suffered, but they had obviously done their job. Most of the roofs had patches of blackened tile where flames had skittered over them and been extinguished, and one of the expensive houses in the Cloud district had been half-caved in by a rock thrown by the Stormcloak's siege engine – the rock was still visible, where it had landed.

But overall, it was recoverable; that much was obvious. Breezehome looked fine. Even Warmaidens, with its proximity to the wall, had suffered only a few burn marks along its roof and a couple of shattered windows. Adrienne's smelter had not been so lucky – it was smashed to pieces with a boulder sitting in its centre. But the smelter had stopped the huge ball of flaming rock from razing any houses, and it had not allowed the ammunition's fire to spread, or the boulder to continue its path of destruction.

As we walked the path to Dragonsreach, Hadvar broke our silence, and I could tell from his tone that he was much relieved by the state of the city as well.

"Why don't we put our plans to the Jarl, and be guided by his response?" he asked.

I glanced swiftly to him, and he smiled while he explained. "If he truly needs you here, he will tell you, and I will accept his decree. I am in his service now, too, am I not?"

I nodded slowly, deep in thought; wondering what the Jarl would say when we told him, and wondering if there would be any chance of changing his mind if he requested that I stay. We reached the edge of the empty marketplace and ascended the stairs to the Gildergreen. All the while, I mused; my eyes turned to the ground. I knew I was being selfish by insisting we go to Riften today. But, under the circumstances, I couldn't stop myself from asking; did I have a _right_ to be?

"Hey," Hadvar chuckled, slowing to a stop underneath the bleak white tree and turning to face me. He lifted a hand to my chin, turning my eyes up to meet his, and I saw that his smile now reached his beautiful grey depths. "Don't despair, love," he insisted in a lighter tone. "Going or not going to Riften today changes _nothing_ about us."

His eyes flickered over my face, bearing a glint of excitement and a glimmer of hope, and I watched him silently as I let his words sink into me. What did he search for; what did he see, when he looked at me like that?

"I know," I spoke; the words leaving me in a whisper. My hand rose to cover his, where it lay on my cheek, and I sighed, closing my eyes. He was right. "I know," was all I could repeat. My words were stolen by the breeze that rattled the branches above us.

His lips were on mine before I had opened my eyes, and the warmth his words had kindled spread slowly, comforting me as he moved. I could smell the rain on him, even now, and memories of the previous night drove me to push my melancholy away. We were lucky to be _alive._ What did it matter where we went today, or tomorrow, so long as we were together?

Guiding my palms along his arms, I revelled at the feel of his muscles through the fabric he wore. I was lucky to have him at all, and to see him dressed so normally for once, in simple clothing instead of Legion armour.

He shuddered under my touch, and withdrew from the kiss, sighing as he relaxed his hold on me. "I can't seem to stop kissing you today, Lady Dragonborn."

I smiled and wound my arms around his neck lazily. "I don't want you to stop," I whispered; the words dancing off my tongue before I had thought about them.

He laughed quietly, but at the same time flushed and looked down hastily, and when he glanced back up, his eyes were shining with confidence, and amusement. "I may hold you to that," a cheeky half-smile curved at the corner of his lips.

Though I felt a little embarrassed at what I had babbled, my own smile mirrored his as I took a step back and offered him my hand. "Are you ready?"

He weightily sighed and glanced uneasily towards Dragonsreach as he twined his fingers in mine. "Ah, about as ready as any man is to ask another man for permission to marry the woman he loves."

I flashed him an amused glance as we walked. "He's not my _father_ , Hadvar."

"No," Hadvar agreed, shaking his head as he watched where he placed his feet. "He's worse. He's your _Jarl_."

There was a levity to his tone that told me he was only joking, so I merely smiled in response, and turned my head away to look out over the plains beyond the walls as we ascended the stairs. Had we met in Solitude a handful of months earlier; had my sister never betrayed my family, and the Stormcloaks never attacked the Blue Palace that night, Hadvar _would_ have been asking my dear father for my hand.

 _Father would have liked Hadvar,_ I told myself wistfully.

I couldn't stop myself from considering it, as much as I knew it would arouse my grief. But my parents would never meet the man I was about to pledge the rest of my life to. They would not be with me on my wedding day, or visit us in our home, when we made one, and they would never meet and play with their grandchildren.

 _Hadvar is the same as you,_ I told myself sternly. _You will never meet the people who brought him into this world, either._

I could not bear to continue thinking over who we had lost, and the futures that had been stolen from them. I turned my eyes to the heavens, and appealed to Kynareth for repose.

The breeze; weak, but bearing the dry coldness of the ice far to the north, fanned my cheeks and toyed gently with my hair and the skirts of my tunic. The sky was a stunning, clear blue and the weak sun, now high above us, caught the tundra beyond the wall, making it look like spun gold. The mountains in the distance were distinct and purpled, free of haze and capped in brilliant white at their peaks.

"Beautiful," I whispered.

I felt Hadvar's gaze settle on me. "What's wrong?"

I offered him a small smile. "Skyrim. It's...so beautiful," I flushed as I said it, realising how silly I must have sounded. I couldn't stop myself from adding, "I want to save it."

Hadvar shifted closer to me, detangling our hands to place his arm around my shoulder instead. As we continued to slowly climb up to Dragonsreach, he responded quietly; "So do I."

–

"Ah, Miss Passero, as prompt as ever," Farengar met Hadvar and I before we reached the stairs leading up to the war room.

The main hall was empty, as I had expected it to be while everybody was so busy, but the din of many conversations travelled down to us from the war room above.

"Farengar," I greeted in a somewhat startled tone, blinking at the mage as he stopped before us. He looked entirely normal, dressed in his trademark robes with his hood obscuring his eyes. One would never have guessed he had been on the front line of battle the previous day.

After a pause, the corner of his mouth curved. "Do you wish to have our discussion in the privacy of my office, or shall the stairwell suffice?" he asked.

"Oh," I remembered, widening my eyes as I glanced to Hadvar, whose arm I was still nestled underneath. I had entirely forgotten that I had told Farengar we would have a talk once Whiterun had been made safe again.

Could I put this discussion off? If I didn't take the opportunity to ask Farengar about Delphine now, I might not get another chance to do so before I left for High Hrothgar. Delphine was certainly not my priority, but the Thalmor, and what they might want with me, _was_. Any information the court mage could give me might help me to understand, and prevent, a future ambush.

"Um," I wasn't sure of how to explain this additional delay to Hadvar, or if I even should go into any details from the main hall. "I think," I fumbled for words, glancing back to Farengar swiftly. "Your office," I decided quickly.

"As you wish," he sounded unaffected, and motioned for me to precede him.

"No – please," I waved in the same direction hurriedly. "Go before me. I will be with you in a few minutes."

I was sure that he was crossing his brows at me from under his hood. I repressed the urge to tug it back from his head so I could see his eyes. Instead of replying, he simply gave me a short, courteous nod, then stepped around Hadvar and I. His boots clacked against the flagstones and floorboards as he departed.

"Sorry," I flashed Hadvar an apologetic look as he lowered his arm. "I forgot-"

"By all means," he nodded after the retreating mage. "Do what you need to do."

Smiling my thanks, I stood on my toes and pressed my lips to his cheek. "I will be ten minutes."

He smiled easily and waved me away. "Good. That gives me time to ask the Jarl for your hand, after all," he grinned cheekily.

" _Hadvar_ ," I hissed, trying to suppress my laughter.

"Go," he laughed, then turned away, still grinning as he made for the war room. "I will settle things with the Jarl," he added over his shoulder.

Trying to repress my flush, I turned away and moved toward Farengar's office.

Hadvar wasn't _serious_ , was he?

 _If he is...perhaps this is best,_ I told myself. The Jarl had certainly exhibited behaviour toward me that was not unlike a guardian's, and on a number of occasions had expressed that his actions and orders were given _for_ his friend; for my father. I knew that he wished to take care of me. So – perhaps if Hadvar approached him alone, and requested my hand in marriage, the Jarl would appreciate the gesture, and agree to our leaving at once?

"So," Farengar cut through my musings, and I glanced up hastily, realising that I had drawn to a halt before his desk already.

The mage was standing the other side with his hands placed on the edge of it. "What is it that you wish to discuss, Miss Passero?"

I nodded, taking a deep breath. "I don't have much time, so I will be direct," I told him. "I am after information on Delphine Comtois-"

Farengar visibly withdrew and waved his hands urgently for me to stop.

I hesitated, my mouth still open in the act of speaking, and I crossed my brows as he hurried back toward the main hall. I closed my mouth and just watched him; I had never seen him this agitated.

When he reached the boundary to his rooms, he glanced around the opening swiftly, then turned back to me, waving his hands before him as he did.

A dull, blue light gathered there, just for an instant, and then was snuffed. When he stepped back into the room, his boots made no sound against the flagstones.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Farengar silenced me with a gesture, then pointed sternly toward a room at the back of his office, even has he strode toward it himself.

I pursed my lips as I trailed after him, understanding that for him to react in this manner, there was _a lot_ more to Delphine than I could have expected. Perhaps this was going to take a bit longer than ten minutes.

Farengar opened the door and I followed him into a smaller, private study. The far wall was lined with bookshelves filled to the brim with books, and a large desk was against the wall to the right. The desk was orderly, with only a notepad, lantern, quill and ink resting upon it.

"Take a seat," the mage muttered to me, and before I was able to move, he added, "and tell me who told you her surname?"

I watched him closely as I sat and considered my words. "A Justiciar," I told him flatly.

His mouth curled down in horror; if I could have seen his eyes, I was sure that they would have been bulging out of his head. "What have you done?" he asked, aghast.

"Nothing," I gave him an unimpressed look. "Your client is safe. As are you," I added in afterthought; perhaps he was only concerned that I might have told them of _him_.

He lifted shaking hands and raked them through his hair, pushing his hood back from his face in the process as he sank into his chair behind the desk. "You can be so certain?" he questioned; his eyes glued to the top of his desk.

"On this matter, yes," I pressed on, and sat forward. "But, Farengar," I glanced over the suddenly stricken Nord. "You _know_ that I am pledged to leave Whiterun, and while I am travelling to High Hrothgar, they might come for me again. I need to know why."

"Absolutely not," he shook his head resolutely, sitting straighter as he placed his palms flat on the desk. He met my eyes, and he seemed to have collected himself in that single moment, for his gaze was hard, and unyielding. "Do you truly believe that you could withstand torture at the hand of the Thalmor, if they desired to learn what you already know?"

"No," I admitted freely, trying to push aside the certainty that my sister might be enduring said torture as we spoke. "No," I repeated more quietly, shaking off the dread as best I could. "But it was clear that they knew quite a bit about her already," I shrugged, crestfallen. "Undoubtedly, more than I know. I am only asking you to tell me why they are after information about her, not what that information might be."

Farengar's expression grew shrewd and he remained silent for a moment, clearly considering. Eventually, he replied; "They believe she is a criminal."

"What crime has she committed?" I asked evenly.

The mage's mouth curled distastefully. "That is open to interpretation."

My frustration spiked at his roundabout reply. "What do _you_ believe her crime is?" I tried again.

Farengar sat back in his chair, and again, shook his head. "I do not believe she has committed-"

"Don't," I cut him off swiftly, my voice rising. "Don't do that," I warned him. His eyes flickered to me, and I took a deep breath to modulate my tone. "Tell me why you believe the Thalmor are after her."

Farengar sighed and turned his head up, to look at the ceiling. "Would it satisfy you to know that she worships Talos?"

There was no way it could be so simple. "That depends on whether that is the whole truth," I answered stiffly.

He glanced back down to me, nodding grimly. "Of course, there is more to it, but as I told you the last time you asked me about her; it is her story to tell. I know little more than that, with regards to the Thalmor's interest in her, and -"

"Then, tell me what you have _theorised_ ," I implored, unable to hold back a desperate laugh. "Farengar, the Thalmor _hunted_ me to ask me questions about that woman! They were prepared to detain me, to get what they needed. Don't you understand?" I leaned forward earnestly. "What will happen to your investigations, to _her_ investigations, should I, _the Dragonborn_ , be spirited away by the Aldmeri Dominion?" I asked, reaching for anything that might convince him to talk.

He sat back and glanced to his table again, but only replied with a sigh.

So, I continued. "You heard what she told me, when she left your office last time," I spoke in a more controlled tone, though it was no less imploring. "She told me to _stay alive_. If she wants me alive, and you have information that might help me do that, then you have a _duty_ , to her, if not to me, to tell me what I need to know," I insisted.

Farengar's eyes flickered to mine, and he looked no less grim when he nodded. "I understand. You must forgive my reticence; in many matters, I am as unenlightened as you are."

It sounded as though I had made my point, so now all I had to do was be patient. I nodded calmly, and sat back. "Anything you can tell me will help, and I swear to you; it will not leave this room."

He returned my nod, though it was shallow, and seemed more like a cordial bow. "She is a relic of the ancient past, in some ways. When she first approached me, I have no doubts that it was because it is widely known that I am an expert in both dragon lore and languages," he did not even try to feign modesty.

"She knew that the dragons would come back?" I prompted, frowning.

He shook his head. "I do not believe the dragons motivated her early enquiries at all, for at that time neither of us had any idea that they might pose a threat, in the flesh," he glanced toward me uneasily. "She asked me to develop a cipher using the dragon tongue, that would help her to understand some documents in her, or her employer's possession."

My confusion deepened. Her pursuits were _scholarly_? Why would the Thalmor hunt down a woman looking into the language of the dragons? "Have you seen these documents?"

Farengar frowned now. "Unfortunately not. But I have seen and heard enough during our...meetings," he tasted the word with a grimace, as though he found it bitter, "to understand that she, and whoever she works for, are searching for something that could destabilise the Empire and Aldmeri Dominion both."

"Which is what, exactly?" I asked eagerly, relieved to finally be getting somewhere.

"Not what; _who_ ," Farengar sat back, unconsciously tapping his fingers on the desk as he observed me. "Do you recall Delphine's reaction, when she learned that _you_ were our Dragonborn?"

I nodded swiftly. "She was surprised, and she left immediately."

"Yes," he acknowledged, a little uncertainly. "But, recall what she _said_ , if you will," he pressed. "' _This changes everything_ '," he quoted. "Now, you tell me, Miss Passero; why might a group of people interested in destabilising our current political system believe that _you_ being made Dragonborn _changes everything_?" he asked directly.

I had no idea, but I felt as though Farengar was testing me; trying to determine how much _I_ knew about this title that had been bestowed upon me. I wished at once that I had persevered with my sister while she had been detained in the Imperial camp; that I had drawn from her, at least in part, why Ulfric believed me to be Dragonborn.

Pouring over my limited knowledge desperately, I reached for a link between the dragons and the Empire, and I recalled a passage I had read in Kodlak's journal:

 _She is Dragonborn. Who better to serve the Gods in my vision than she? I will leave my suspicions of her progenitors out of this volume, for it is irrelevant to our goals, but perhaps, after our cure has been realised, and her duties have given her liberty to stay a while, I might touch on the subject with her, out of a more personal interest._ _I doubt very much that the Empire would make anything of such talk, but for her sake, we will maintain caution._

I groaned aloud and leaned down; my forehead made a _thunk_ noise against Farengar's desk. " _This_ again?" I asked him bleakly.

"So you _do_ know," was Farengar's somewhat amused response.

"No," I glanced up, frustrated that _this_ , this suspicion that being Dragonborn meant I was linked to an ancient line of Emperors, might be why Delphine had managed to aggravate the Thalmor. "No, Farengar, I _don't_ know," I told him tetchily. "I asked you directly, when I returned from Bleak Falls Barrow, whether _this_ ," I indicated myself in frustration, "had anything to do with Saint Alessia and the Septim dynasty, and you told me it _didn't_. You told me that Dragonborns were _chosen_ , not _born_ into their role," I added desperately. "What a handful of people speculate about my ancestry makes _no sense_ ," I insisted to him. "For if it were true, my sister would also be Dragonborn, and be able to shout, and understand the language of the dragons instinctively, and she _can't_."

Farengar considered me for a moment, his expression maddeningly calm. "What I told you that day is true, Miss Passero. Dragonborns _are_ chosen. Do you believe that every Septim who ever lived since the First Era was granted access to talents such as yours?" he posed reasonably, extending his palms. "So, why _should_ your traitorous sister bear the grace of Akatosh because a certain blood might or might not secretly run through the Passero family's veins?" Farengar queried.

I closed my eyes and silently willed him to stop speaking. "But, the Septim line ended at the close of the Third era," I told him bleakly, as steadily as I could manage. If what he said was true, then I had not been made Dragonborn because I was the only person in Skyrim that the Gods believed could counter the dragon threat. It was because I had been the best _choice_ out of three bad choices; myself, my sister, and my elderly grandfather in Cyrodiil.

"Perhaps so," Farengar said quickly. The sound of the chair scraping against the floor encouraged me to open my eyes, and I looked up to the mage, now moving around the desk. My eyes followed him as he stopped before his books.

"Perhaps Delphine and her people are desperately chasing a loose end. I am merely doing as you asked," he scanned the spines of the tomes within one of the shelves. "I am speculating based on that which I have seen, and read. It does not require much digging to start wondering, once given the right push," he grunted as he extracted a heavy-looking book from the shelf, cradling it in his arms as he turned back to me. "Or to understand that an alliance between your family and the Septim dynasty is plausible," he approached.

I startled as he placed the book on the table before me. "Then, why did the Thalmor ask me about Delphine, if they believe this as well?" I asked, staring at the book. It was a drab object, bound in cool brown leather and embossed with an innocuous looking flower motif and a few scrolls of knot work.

Farengar made a rude _hmph_ sound as he leaned over and began to flick through the pages. "Miss Passero, if the Thalmor had reason to believe that you were descendant from the Septims, you would already be dead. I believe they are after her because of the noise she makes while she conducts her search; dredging up pre-Concordat nostalgia and Talos dogma in her wake. No," he stopped turning pages, and ran his finger down the scribings swiftly. He added in a murmur; "If there is a truth to be found, it has been well hidden, by those who understood the gravity of its discovery," he tapped his finger pointedly on a section, then glanced to me. "Read this."

Swallowing nervously and wondering if _I_ might gain hidden enlightenment from whatever this document was, I leaned forward and scanned the page from the place he had indicated. It began part way through a sentence:

 _...the Hero of Kvatch saved the city and Martin by entering the gate and closing it before a daedric siege engine could destroy Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple. Many songs and stories have been told of this battle and I will not retell them here. The Hero of Kvatch was now known as the Saviour of Bruma._

 _With the city and Cloud Ruler Temple safe, Martin Septim opened the portal to Mankar Camoran's "Paradise". The details of what transpired in this place have not been recorded; all that is known is that the Hero of Kvatch traveled there, killed Mankar Camoran, and returned with the Amulet of Kings._

"This is _The Oblivion Crisis_ ," I mumbled, glancing in confusion to Farengar. "So?"

Farengar smiled down at me patiently. "Note the care that has gone into all wording pertaining to the Hero of Kvatch. They are never referred to by their true name, race, or even gender."

"Because they were a nobody – no, worse; a _criminal_ ," I recalled, for I had read the book myself during my studies. _The Oblivion Crisis_ , and the tragedy within that had consumed the bastard son of Uriel Septim VII, had often been used as inspiration for songs and poems.

"Perhaps they were a criminal? Or perhaps even that is part of a deception, designed to draw attention away from who they really were?" Farengar shrugged, closing the book before me. He inspected its cover with a frown on his face. "Whatever this person's past; they earned the trust of both Uriel and Martin Septim, and rose to become the Champion of Cyrodiil," he mused. "Does it not strike you as odd that our records about the Oblivion Crisis don't _once_ refer to this Champion by their given name?"

I crossed my brows at his reasoning. No wonder the Thalmor weren't interested in _me_ ; he had _nothing_.

"Ah," he smiled patiently at me. "Like I said before; perhaps there is no conspiracy here. Perhaps Delphine's documents are nothing more than old recipes, encoded to shroud their details from some ancient, rival chef."

I paled, understanding a link I had been missing. "Delphine's employer has documents that can identify the Hero of Kvatch?" I posed quietly. "Documents written in...the dragon tongue?"

"She has never told me _explicitly_ what she endeavours to find, and she and I have never _explicitly_ discussed the Passeros, or the Septims," Farengar sighed, moving back around his desk and taking his seat, throwing _The Oblivion Crisis_ onto the desk between us. "And, I don't believe her documents are merely _written_ in the dragon tongue, or others might have decoded them before now."

"Okay," I shook my head quickly, "so, a code within a code. And you – _she_ ," I corrected, when Farengar tilted his head and arched an eyebrow, "and her people, believe that this...information, once deciphered, might prove that the Septim line _didn't_ end; that it continued on through...the _Hero of Kvatch_?" I winced.

Farengar smiled, but didn't confirm anything. "If she and her people did believe they could locate such information, would the Dominion's interest in her not make more sense?"

I sank back into my seat, feeling overwhelmed. "Perhaps," I conceded sadly. "But...if this...connection is proven – and I am not saying that it will be," I made clear, "then why would it _change everything_?" I asked, shaking my head. "The Medes have governed Tamriel for centuries, and they will not simply stand aside. Delphine's people can't _possibly_ hope to start a coop, based on so little, whether the Gods made me Dragonborn or not. Given that Skyrim is fighting a different war with the Empire, it would serve little-"

I stilled, cutting my own sentence off, and felt the blood drain from my face. My stomach hollowed.

"What is it, what have you realised?" Farengar asked quickly.

I shook my head, holding my hand out to him as I swallowed down my dread as something my sister had told me forced its way back into my mind.

 _He has plans for us, both of us, after he wins this war._

"He _knows_ ," I muttered in shock.

" _Who_ knows?"

I cursed under my breath and stood, clenching my fists as I paced before Farengar's desk. "He made the connection, somehow from our name alone because _they_ began scheming _years_ ago – and that's why he has _plans_ – that's why they are _together_ ," I faced Farengar as the bubble of absurdity that had surrounded what _had_ to be the truth burst and washed over me. "He means to make her Empress of Tamriel - to control the whole Empire through _her_!" I uttered incredulously.

"Miss Passero," Farengar said in a warning tone, "I assume that this incoherent ranting has something to do with your sister and Ulfric Stormcloak?"

"Of course," I resumed pacing as my head began to ache with all of the thoughts firing through it at once. "He knows it, and _she_ knows it, _that's_ why she became so insufferable after she went to college," I clenched my teeth. "Because he put this _Empress_ idea into her head and it bloated her ego, her love of power," I muttered.

 _All I have done, all I have endured, has been for the good of Tamriel._

I winced at the memory. Perhaps it _was_ a craving for power that drove her, to some extent, but I had seen for myself that she _believed_ in what she was doing. But honestly - Giselle? _Empress_?

"Miss Passero-"

"Wait, please," I held my hand out to him, so I could follow my internal revelations as they unfolded. "It explains why she thinks this war has to happen," I raked my hands through my tangled hair. "No, wait," I halted. "She said, plans for _us_ ," I mused to the wall, frowning. "But why _us_? Tamriel can't have _two_ Empresses."

"Celeste!" Farengar called; loud and pointed. "You have taken an idea and run wild with it."

I glanced to him swiftly; my eyes wide, and saw that he had risen and was leaning over his desk. He had a stern look on his face.

He raised his eyebrows as he spoke in a lowered tone. "We are merely speculating, but our conversation has wandered into a very dangerous place," he warned. "Should any of what you or I have said today leave this room, they _will_ come for us, and it won't be to ask questions about Delphine's activities."

Sobering at his intensity, I nodded, then huffed. "Nobody will believe us if we say anything-"

"We must not give anybody the _chance_ to believe it," he insisted. "Not the Jarl; not your housecarl. Certainly not your lover, if you want him to survive his next battle."

 _Hadvar_ , I remembered, and it was as though Farengar had thrown a bucket of cold water over me. I wasn't supposed to be here with the Jarl's mage, arguing about whether Giselle and I were descendant from Emperors! I stepped forward; gripped the back of the chair I had previously occupied, and nodded again. "All right. You and I – we will speak no more of this," I vowed. "I cannot think on this now, anyway," I closed my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, and another. When the thoughts of Giselle, Ulfric, and everything that Delphine may or may not unearth burst through my mind, I pushed them aside, and repeated to myself; _not now_.

Farengar stood, motioning toward the door. "Correct. What _you_ must focus on now, Celeste, is that, Septim or not, you _are_ the Dragonborn, and your duty is to present yourself to the Greybeards for training, _not_ to become entangled in a political fancy that would undoubtedly get us, and what remains of your family, killed."

I nodded again, though a stab of fear surged through me at his words. _If Giselle believes she is descendant from the Septims, and the Thalmor have any idea of what Delphine is investigating...they might..._

 _No_. I couldn't think on it.

"I am going to High Hrothgar in a week," I told him, more to distract myself from my thoughts.

"A _week_?" he crossed his brows. "You have put this journey off for long enough," he scolded.

I gave him a dark look. "I have been busy. And I am committed elsewhere, for the next week," I evaded, for I knew that if I told him the truth, he would speak all those doubts and accusations of selfishness that I had felt during our walk up to Dragonsreach.

He shook his head. "You must do what you believe to be right, of course," there was no sneer to his tone, for once. He _almost_ sounded humbled.

I took this oddly pensive moment as my cue to leave. "As must we all," I muttered, dipping my head. "Thank you for your time. And...your honesty," I glanced toward him.

He rose and walked around the table. "Come. I will go with you to the Jarl," he sighed. "There is still...much to be organised in the wake of the battle."

I could only imagine, and as we exited Farengar's rooms and ascended the stairs to the war room, I no longer wondered why we hadn't been interrupted while we had been talking for so long.

The war room was _full_ of soldiers, guards, officials, and Whiterun citizens, and they were all too busy to care about where Farengar and I had been. The doors to the Great Porch had been opened, and there were more people out there, standing clustered in groups around tables which were clogged with food and drink and parchments held down with stones, and lanterns struggling to maintain their flames in the wind whistling and swirling through the halls.

I paused at the top of the stairs and glanced around. I located Hadvar at the Jarl's table, leaning over it on his elbows with his eyes on Irileth. The Jarl's housecarl was standing at the head of the table, drawing her finger around a large map of the city, which had been marked in green and blue ink here and there.

Before I had reached the table, Irileth glanced up and stilled, and her piercing garnet eyes settled on me. As she stood taller, placing her arms behind her back with a _barely_ perceptible roll of her eyes, the Jarl, Hadvar, and the other soldiers at the table turned to see what had captured her attention.

"My dear Thane!" the Jarl's concentration broke as his expression lifted. Grinning, he approached me and grasped my shoulders with his large hands, though he looked over my head to his court mage at first. "Farengar, have the Black-Briar Reserve brought up. We have a marriage to toast," the Jarl's voice was full of mirth, and his eyes were smiling with him, crinkled at the corners as they flickered to meet mine.

I thought I heard the words _committed elsewhere_ muttered under the mage's breath as he stalked off.

"My Jarl," I dipped a quick cursory bow; evidently Hadvar _had_ said something to him. "Thank you – but I assure you, your blessing is enough-"

The Jarl laughed, cutting me off. "Come now – I insist," he turned around, securing an arm around my shoulder as he led me to the main table. "Mead for everybody!" he announced.

There were a chorus of hurrahs from those within earshot.

"Jarl Balgruuf, perhaps now is not the most appropriate time to be _celebrating_ considering the magnitude of-"

"This is _exactly_ the time to be celebrating, Irileth," the Jarl cut her off as he delivered me to Hadvar's side. "The Thane of Whiterun is to be wed," he chuckled.

Hadvar stood tall and glanced down to me; the slightly startled expression warming as he met my eyes, and smiled. I felt my nerves ease as I returned his smile, powerless to remain conflicted under his gaze.

I'm sure that Irileth grunted in frustration, but I barely heard it, and the Jarl continued over the top of her anyway.

"Hadvar informs me that you mean to depart for Riften at once," he began warmly.

We turned our attention to him as Hadvar eased his arm around me, settling his hand on my waist.

"Yes," I confirmed swiftly, a little alarmed that the Jarl seemed _so_ in favour of our union, but I supposed that it wasn't the first time Jarl Balgruuf's support had surprised me. Perhaps he was simply happy to have some good news, in the wake of the battle. "We have limited time before I leave for High Hrothgar, so we thought it prudent not to wait."

"Understandable," the Jarl sobered somewhat, though his eyes still shone with merriment. "I shall not delay you long. Though, Celeste, you ask your man a difficult thing, to wed you now, and then let you go a week into your union."

Hadvar's hand tightened slightly on my waist. "We all have our duties," he answered quietly.

"That's right," the Jarl agreed. "And the Greybeards will not keep her forever."

 _I can only hope_ , I thought. I nodded, so I wouldn't have to try and form words around the vice clenching at my throat when I thought about what I was getting into anew. My discussion with Farengar had brought a fresh sense of fear into the confusion I felt about what it meant to be Dragonborn. Did the Greybeards believe as Delphine and her ilk did? What if there _was_ a lifetime of training ahead of me, or worse; lifetime of tragedy, as there had been for the _last_ Septim who had fought to save the world?

Gratefully it seemed that words were not expected of me, and true to his word, the Jarl did not keep us long. Farengar returned with a number of servants and several bottles of mead. After toasting to our health he wished us well on our journey, and we took our leave.

There were things I needed to pack, so I led Hadvar through the castle and up to my rooms instead of out of Dragonsreach. The silence of the empty hallways after the din of the war room and the stifling intensity of Farengar's presence and speculation was a welcome relief, as was Hadvar's easy, companionable silence.

We walked, and I felt myself begin to slowly unwind, but it was only when we reached my sitting room that I realised Hadvar and I were _alone_.

I locked the door; faltered; turned, torn between wanting to leave for Riften as soon as possible, and yearning to claim a moment of normality for us; to stride across the room and draw him down into a wild, passionate kiss; one that would lead us to my bedroom.

Hadvar stood by one of the tables with his hands resting on the top edge of a chair. My backpack was on the floor by his feet, and his eyes were on the mannequin in the corner; the one that wore the delicate, impractical silk dress the Jarl had gifted me with my Thane's armour.

A look of unreserved _sadness_ on his face made my chest tighten painfully.

"Hadvar?" I hastened to his side; rested my hand gently on his arm.

He glanced to me quickly, blinking as he smiled. "You should hurry, love," he nodded toward my bedroom.

I frowned; his smile had not reached his eyes. "All...right," I hazarded, collecting my pack; turning away; the decision of which course to tread suddenly made for me. Confused, I took a step toward my room, and his regretful sigh stopped me in my tracks.

Glancing over my shoulder, I asked, "What's wrong?" My voice sounded small, and more afraid than I had realised it would. I cleared my throat and added hastily; "Please?"

Hadvar looked down to his boots as a wince marred his handsome features. "I'm sorry," he cut in quickly. "It's nothing, really. I'm being... _quite_ stupid."

"I don't believe you are _capable_ of being stupid," I turned back, my pack forgotten as I closed the space between us. "Tell me?" I asked softly, smoothing my palms along his strong arms. "Was it...something the Jarl said?"

"What? No," Hadvar blinked, frowning as he glanced across the room again. His hands settled on my hips but his touch was feather-light.

I followed his line of sight; he was staring at the mannequin again.

Puzzled, I turned back to him. "Is...there something wrong with the dress?" I asked with incredulity.

" _No_ ," Hadvar stressed, his eyes snapping back to me. "It's...it would look beautiful on you," he caressed my cheek, his touch barely there. "It is a dress fit for a queen," he added thoughtfully.

I was disturbed by the _shame_ to his murmurings. "The Jarl insisted upon it. I freeze every time I wear it," I told him dismissively.

"It's not the dress, it's-" Hadvar lowered his hands and paused. He took a moment to reconsider.

"You are... _so far_ above me, Celeste, I'm amazed you can bear it," he owned with a desperate glance to the ceiling. "You could marry a Jarl – or an _Emperor._ Are you sure you should be coming to Riften with _me_?" he met my eyes, rife with caution. "I'm just a soldier. It's all I'll ever be."

Stunned by _this_ coming from him, and _now_ , not to mention anxious over the absurd possibility that I _was_ descendant from an ancient line of Emperors, I hastily shook my head.

" _Above_ you – _what_?" I fumbled as I organised my thoughts. "You are not _just_ a soldier, unless you believe that I am _just_ a student bard," I berated. "You are not measured in my eyes by your _job title_."

Hadvar glanced away. "I just wish..." he murmured, then again, reconsidered. "I warned you," he half-smirked; "it's stupid."

"You're right, this _is_ stupid-" I tried to smile back; tried to break him free of this triviality, for it did not feel as though he would let it go. The act of smiling at least made _me_ feel slightly more resolved.

"-But I look around this room," he continued wistfully, "and... _I_ want to give you this. The glamour, the...splendour. Everything you deserve, and more. Even once the war has ended, _if_ it ever ends," he added in frustration, "all I will be capable of providing you with is a farmhouse, somewhere near Riverwood."

Staring at him, I realised how stupid we were _both_ being. Was I not doing just as Hadvar was; agonising over _rank_? It _was_ stupid to brood over a connection that my family may or may not have to another ancient family, whoever they might have once been. The blood that pumped through my heart was _my_ blood. Where it had come from would not change who _I_ was, not at my core.

Closing the remaining space between us, I wound my arms around his neck. He had forgotten about my family fortune; that by marrying me, it would be his as well, but if the grandeur of Dragonsreach had brought this insecurity to light, now was not the time to remind him that he was about to become a _very_ wealthy man. "Will...you be living in this farmhouse somewhere near Riverwood?" I asked haltingly.

His expression levelled and he watched me closely, dazed. He nodded shallowly as his hands drifted out to rest on my waist, seemingly of their own accord.

"Then, I want to live there," I glanced up under my lashes, then stood on my toes; my lips ghosting his. "I want...you, Hadvar Reidarsson," I whispered, smiling as my cheeks grew warm. "Where you are...is my home."

I kissed him gently. He kissed me back, but I could still feel that sense of regret; his withdrawal, and hesitance.

I wound my fingers into his hair and leaned against him, tilting my head to deepen the kiss; to bring him back to me, to _now_. When his hands flexed against my waist, then tightened, I smiled against his lips as my relief tolled through me like a triumphant bell. Emboldened by his tentative response, I drew a hand back and worked at the fastenings down the side of my armour. When his thick fingers fumbled against mine, clumsy with eagerness, I gasped and reached for his waist, tugging at the ties of his trousers.

He withdrew with a laboured breath; his eyes hooded as he lifted my armour swiftly up. I let go to raise my arms to hasten its removal, then unclasped my tasset, pushing it over my hips and dress, kicking it away.

"I locked the door," the words tumbled out of me. When I met his eyes, my cheeks felt hotter still.

They were clouded; part wonder, part passion, searching me with a depth that did nothing to lessen the fire roaring through my veins. "I love you," was his mumbled reply as he gripped fistfuls of material and tugged me toward him, securing my body against his.

His hungry mouth claimed mine, and my mind spun from the dizzying want he awakened. A satisfied moan fell from his lips when I responded in kind, and the sound rippled through me while he bunched my tunic-dress up. The pads of his fingertips grazed the skin of my thighs as he shifted the material across them, sending a shiver down my spine.

Perhaps if we had not been interrupted by generals and dragons, or our own logic _every_ _time_ we had stumbled toward intimacy, I might have been capable of holding back now. But with each passing moment, my restraint crumbled as thoughts, memories and emotions not centred on Hadvar were shoved aside.

A final fear lingered in my mind, plucking and prodding at the glow coursing through me. It was a fear of being called away, or of Hadvar being called away; of being interrupted _yet again_ and of being separated _yet again._ The panic, the possibility of still being denied my Hadvar powered a fierce urgency that overran any trepidation I might have felt under more controlled circumstances.

We didn't even make it to the bedroom. The moment Hadvar raked my dress over my head, he fell to his knees before me. His hands splayed over my belly in shaking, earnest, purposeful exploration. My eyes fluttered closed; I gasped under his touch. He was a sculptor, discovering with skilled hands what wonders might be realised within new, pliant clay. His fingers spread out, grasping my hips and hooking the waistband of my underwear, drawing the garment down and bearing me to him. The stubble on his cheeks and chin tickled me as he placed kiss after hot kiss on every inch of sensitive skin covering my abdomen, moving lower with every fiery touch and breath he pressed to me.

My fingers tangled through his thick hair for balance as my legs shook; incapable of supporting me for long. A brightness thrummed through me like a chorus and my thoughts scattered, allowing my spirit, for the first time in my life, to _sing_.

As my vision cleared, Hadvar's arms tightened around me, lifting me effortlessly as he stood.

Our eyes met as I wrapped my legs around his waist and pressed my breasts against his clothed chest.

"So beautiful," he whispered; his grey depths flickering over me. I searched his flushed cheeks and plumped, reddened lips in hazy wonder as words slipped out of my mind before I could wrap my tongue, or head, around them.

Then we were _falling_. A surge of adrenaline shot through me as my back hit soft material and furs; a quick glance behind me confirmed we were on my bed. I hadn't even realised Hadvar had been moving us in here.

He leaned up to pull his tunic over his head, then arched over me, raking a hand through my hair as he continued to _look_ at me; look into my soul. Combing my fingers down his broad, hard shoulder blades and lean back, I searched his face, committing the feel of him, the feel of _us_ to memory; one that might sustain me no matter how long we were to be parted for in the future.

When he kissed me, he was slower and less urgent than before, but somehow this kiss conveyed _more_ than any other kiss we had shared. More feeling, more intensity, a depth of affection previously unrealised. It was a kiss overflowing with hope.

He lifted his head barely, to whisper over my lips, "Is this all right?"

I breathed a quiet laugh as I nodded, smiling blissfully, still unable, or perhaps unwilling to find any words.

"Thank you," he replied sincerely.

The love in his eyes, his _voice_ , twisted my heart until it felt it might break from the weight. "For what?" I asked quietly.

He shuddered, shuffling his weight between my legs; leant down to press his forehead to mine. "For trusting me," he whispered resolutely. His eyes clenched tightly closed as he added a heartfelt; "For _seeing_ me; the _real_ me."

I blinked back tears and closed my eyes, dazzled by my depth of attachment to this brave, kind, courageous, _wonderful_ man. "Likewise," I breathed, tilting my chin up to find his mouth.

While we kissed, slow and deep, he shifted against me again, and then he was pushing through me. The pressure sent a flush of discomfort to my core, but it was not as painful as I had been led to believe it would be. He stilled when I tensed, patiently unmoving, coaxing kiss after kiss out of me while my body stretched and quaked, and adjusted to this new dance. The ache abated and I relaxed; in its place, pleasure built; new, but breathtaking. Murmured declarations; beautiful promises and solemn vows were whispered over my skin, punctuating his every move as he gently rocked into me.

I searched for my voice, grasped for the _right_ words; yearning to requite everything he was giving me, and more. But the only word I managed, passing through my lips as we _finally_ climbed the peak we had tried to scale for so long, and tumbled over desperately clinging to one another for purchase, was his name.

–

Whether minutes or hours passed before the world outside of Hadvar swam back into focus, I was uncertain. But when my mind began to tug at me; when my lazily blinking eyes saw not only the softly-smiling, relaxed man beside me, but took in walls and ceilings and rumpled bedclothes, and a patch of bright, clear sky through the window behind me, I tried to push it all away, just for a _little_ longer.

 _Who needs Riften_ , I wondered curiously?

"What if we stay here for the week?" I murmured as I shuffled closer to him, sliding my leg along his as I nuzzled my nose against his cheek.

"Here?" he asked in a low rumble, half smiling. His hand drifted along my leg then circled the small of my back before he gently flattened his palm, holding me to him as he lowered his mouth to my ear. "You mean...in this bed?"

"Yes," I laughed softly, arching my neck at his nonvocal request for access. "Right... _here_ ," I grasped his arm; my words fluttered from me. "Together."

His lips caressed my neck, working over my shoulder, and I hummed my approval. The serene afterglow of our consummation blossomed as he kissed my skin, renewing my desire, and when I leaned back to search his eyes, I wordlessly begged him to touch me again.

"Won't...the Jarl summon you endlessly, if he knows you are here?" Hadvar leaned back, reinforcing his hold as he turned onto his back, easing me on top of him.

"I locked the door," I reminded him quietly, reasonably, smiling mildly as I glanced at him through my lashes. My legs slid either side of his and I arched down, smoothing my palms over his pectorals and brushing my lips over his chest. "Please?" I asked sweetly.

Hadvar chuckled in a laboured way, looking back, as though he appealed to the ceiling. His hands glided over my thighs, squeezing nimbly. "You drive a hard bargain," he sighed to the roof.

Made confident by the response in him, which was making itself more evident at every moment, I guided myself back, flattening my palms to leverage my movement.

"Oh Hadvar," I drank in the sight of his flushed cheeks and mussed-up hair fanned beneath him. "I haven't even _started_ trying to convince you yet," I whispered, brushing against him.

His hands gripped my behind and his eyes seemed to roll back in his head.

"Then I am _doomed_ ," he managed through a groan.

An incessant _tap-tapping_ sound broke through my blush and breathless giggle, and I stilled, startled; my eyes flashing to his.

We stared at one another, waiting for the sound to come again, and _praying_ for it not to. _Surely_ not.

 _But it did;_ a persistent, yet somehow polite knock to the outer door to my rooms.

Hadvar made a grinding sound of frustration, letting go of me and grabbing fistfuls of bedding instead as his knuckles turned white. "What _now_?" he uttered through his teeth.

My heart plummeted when the knock came a third time, and my head whipped to the direction of the door, though I could not see it from my bed. My cheeks burned as I boiled with frustration, as grateful as I had to admit I was that whoever it was hadn't called on me an hour ago. It could not be the Jarl; he would not just stand there knocking again and again.

 _Well_ , I thought ominously. _Whoever is out there had better have a damned good reason for disturbing us, or I might be compelled to FUS them into Oblivion._

"I will make them go away," I murmured darkly, climbing off Hadvar and grabbing the first clothing I could find – his tunic. I padded barefoot across the cool stones, through the sitting room and toward the door. I shirked the tunic over my head, smoothed it down my thighs, and tugged my tangled mass of hair out of the neckline.

I could hear him getting up as I left, and before I had unlocked the door I caught him striding toward me, wearing only trousers and a dark expression of his own.

I turned the key in its lock and pulled back the door, glaring at the _courier_ who was standing there with his fist still raised and poised to knock again.

"Oh, good," the man, in his twenties, seemed taken a little taken back by the suddenness of my appearance, but he shook the temporary surprise away as he uttered, "I have a letter for you, Miss Passero."

My expression levelled as I asked in a flat tone; "You could not have left it with a steward?"

His eyes widened as he took in my appearance, then, suddenly cautious, he glanced beyond me.

I felt Hadvar come to a halt behind me; his large arm swam into view; resting on the door frame. "Who gave you permission to walk through the castle to the Dragonborn's private chambers?" he asked in a steady tone that managed to sound more menacing for the lack of emotion to it.

"N-no one," the courier fumbled as he took a step back, then hastily looked down to his hand. His eyes snapped up again, meeting mine as he pushed a letter toward me. "I was paid to deliver it to you personally-"

I snatched it from him. "By whom?"

"By – by your housecarl, my Lady-" he stuttered.

" _Lydia_?"

My eyes widened. Lydia had instructed _me_ to send _her_ a letter, not the other way around.

I left the embarrassed courier at the door to flounder his apologies to Hadvar as I tore the letter open and leaned down before a lantern, scanning what was at first glance, a hastily-scribbled note.

 _Celeste,_ it began shortly.

 _It brings me more pain than I can express to have to write this, but I must for the sake of those who need your courage and clemency more than ever._

 _I_ _beg_ _of you to alter your route to Riften and bring Hadvar directly to Riverwood. I arrived to find the village on fire and besieged by a dragon. The blasted demon sent a number of brave men and women to Sovngarde, before we managed to end it._

"What has happened?" I was aware of Hadvar's presence behind me though I barely made out his words and couldn't answer. I shifted so that he could lean down and read the letter with me for himself.

My heart clenched painfully in my chest as I continued.

 _Alvor was amongst those who perished while protecting the village._

I stared at the line, glancing over it again to make sure that I had not misread it.

I hadn't. Covering my mouth in horror, I tried to swallow my dread, and made myself read on.

 _Sigrid and Dorthe are in shock, and when it wears off they will need Hadvar, not me._

 _And I know, little one. I_ _know_ _this was supposed to be your time. I am sorry. I will never forgive myself for having to ask this of you, or for being the bearer of such news._

I couldn't read any more. Both hands shook as I glanced to Hadvar, and my terror was mirrored in his features. All the blood seemed to have drained from his face, and his eyes were wide and staring.

The reality of our lives, of the _world_ that we were a part of, no matter how we tried to run or hide from it, crashed over me. The gut-wrenching knowledge that _I_ could have prevented this, had I been less selfish, drowned me for its potency. My hand clenched around the note as I threw my arms around Hadvar, _praying_ that he would not push me away.

"I'm so sorry," I sobbed against his chest. "If we had left at once instead of-"

"Don't," he cut over me, his voice thick. " _Please_ ," he hissed into my hair as he held me fiercely to him.

Words came hard and fast to my mind now; all accusations and grief, but I could not have uttered them even if I wished to around the _guilt_ ; whose remorseless tendrils took hold of my throat and gripped tighter with every breath I took.

–

I packed through a haze of tears and bade Hadvar to go to Riverwood before me. I did not want to keep him from his family any longer than I already had.

He wouldn't leave, or even discuss it, for that matter. Perhaps he guessed what was going through my head as he sat on the edge of my bed and watched me pack for a much longer journey than I had originally intended taking this day. I packed the necklaces Alvor had made, that I hadn't been able to part with to sell; I would return them to Sigrid, of course. But I left my lute and dresses and other comforts behind, and packed warm clothing, daggers, map and potions. I also packed my Thane's armour, for I could not bear the thought of wearing it into Riverwood just now. I would make the journey in common clothes.

I packed to leave them, perhaps forever, if the Greybeards deigned it necessary, but I was not going to run away. I would be here now, for Hadvar and his family – only a fiend would refuse to face them – but I couldn't do _this_ any more. I couldn't sit back and watch under the protection of people whose loyalty I had done nothing to deserve; whose lives were being torn apart by my inaction.

The path before me was clear. I would take Hadvar to Riverwood; I needed to know that he was safe. I would make sure that the dragon who had killed his uncle was truly dead. I would make my apologies to his family for my negligence. And then I would leave. I _had_ to do my duty to my people, what was left of my friends and family, and _stop_ this _plague_ , or I would turn around one day to find that they had snuffed out the lives of everyone I held dear.

I knew that I could never make this right. Neither excuses nor a lifetime of hard work and solitude to destroy every last dragon in Skyrim would bring Dorthe's father, Sigrid's husband, and Hadvar's uncle back. But I had to _try_ to redeem myself, and I would try for the rest of my days, to protect those who remained.

We took one of the horses we had borrowed from the Legion, leaving the saddle at the stables so we could ride together. I was grateful for Hadvar's closeness, as I felt – _hoped_ – he was for mine, but after we had mounted up, we rode in silence.

Once clear of Whiterun and the bustle of the clean up operation, the afternoon dipped into a state of poignant tranquility. After climbing the mountain pass to the south, I led the mare through the woods, on the path I had taken the day I had left Hadvar for the first time; the path that I had tread when I had set out on Farengar's initial test to Bleak Falls Barrow, and then returned to Whiterun along, confused yet successful in my endeavours.

It was a cruelty in itself to take this path, and not only for the memories it invoked. The leaves rippling in the breeze and the wildflowers and moss clinging to the undersides of the trees were too peaceful; too beautiful, lulling me now and then into a false state of emptiness. It never lasted long; a bird call or snap of a twig would fire me up and set my heart racing, and the reminder that _Alvor was dead_ and _I could have stopped it_ would crush me anew.

All too soon, I was guiding the horse down a shallow slope to the crossroads beside the bridge into Riverwood.

I drew the horse to a halt and stared up at the sign, before I turned away and caught a glimpse of the village through the trees.

The river gurgled and gushed underneath the bridge that Hadvar and I had shared our first kiss on; its steady rush unhindered as it pushed around the smoothed, grey bricks at its base. Beyond the bridge, I could see little more than a few blackened beams of wood through the trees, but the smell of smoke hit me on a gust of wind, and it was _crushing_.

I hesitated, listening for trouble, or voices, or _anything_ ; but beyond the sounds of the water, all was eerily silent. The absence of Alvor's hammer, tolling against his anvil, pushed the air from my lungs.

 _I can't_. The reigns fell from my grasp as my eyes welled with tears. I couldn't face them.

 _You_ _ **must**_ _._

"Celeste?" Hadvar asked quietly; his hands tightening on my waist. He cleared his throat; "Come, my love. We are nearly there."

I didn't react, and Hadvar let go of me, reaching around to gather the reigns for himself. With a quiet _click-click_ sound, he urged the horse to continue on toward the village. The mare's hoofs went from thudding against dirt track to clopping against stone as he directed her onto the bridge.

 _Divines give me strength,_ I pleaded silently. I glanced up to the late afternoon sky from the valley that Riverwood was nestled between. The sun had already sunk behind one of the mountains to create that beautiful false evening I was so fond of, that only Riverwood had claim to. _Give me the strength to leave him_ , I prayed to the skies.

I felt Hadvar tense behind me as we turned the horse onto the main street, but he said nothing. There were two Whiterun soldiers at the gateway, which was now sporting a scorch mark down one side and part way along its top; obscuring the name of the village so that it now read as _verwood_.

The guard's faces were lined in ash and sweat, and their expressions were wholly defeated. They didn't spare us more than a glance when we rode past, and we were too distracted by what was before us to hail them.

In the middle of the street, with its head practically at the Ebonhand's front _door_ , was the beast; silent and unmoving. One wing was crumpled underneath it at a painful-looking angle, and its thin, forked tongue lolled out of its tooth-filled maw.

Fire tore through me at the sight of the _dovah_ who had destroyed _everything_ ; the bright rage making my skin tingle and burn as though my form was about to scatter into billions of pieces. My vision hazed; darkening around the periphery, and _ending_ this _monster_ became my only desire. With a speed that I had not realised I possessed, I detangled myself from Hadvar, leapt off the horse, and tore across the road toward it.

I heard Hadvar calling out to me, but couldn't understand what he said around the rushing noise that had filled my ears.

" _FUS_!" I screamed as I reached the fallen, motionless dragon; my anger flaring up in satisfaction at the sight of it tumbling over its own limbs as it was flung away from their home, to settle further away, on the main street. Even as its dead form shuddered from my Shout, its bronzed scales began to glow with golden light.

I stood before its head, staring down at its lifeless, glassy eyes, clenching my fists in restraint, for I wanted nothing more than to leap onto its crumpled body and tear it to pieces with my hands and teeth. Instead, I watched its spirit gather, and waited for its _sil_ to come to me, for I knew that to consume it now would be the only vengeance worth exacting. " _Pruzah_ ," I told it icily as my eyes blazed with cold malice. " _Zu'u fen naak hin nikriin sil, dovah; fah fin lahney hi lost gahrot_."

When the dragon's soul hit me, I closed my eyes and let the hurricane of brightness consume me, wondering if this was the time it would tear me apart, for it would be what I deserved.

If anything, as its presence swirled through my veins and coalesced in my mind, I became more determined to leave; to fly and Shout and bring _oblaan_ ; an _end_ , to this death; to this suffering.

When the golden light faded, I saw all of the bright forms standing around me; their hearts fluttering with uncertainty. I turned away, not wanting to witness their judgement. They were thick with _fear_ ; I could _smell_ it.

My eyes burned with something more ethereal than tears, and through the haze I found Hadvar; the only being of lightness whose fear was _for_ me, whose heart beat in time with my own. Lifting my arms to reach for him, I blinked, and as with all the other times I had seen this strange, swirling view of the world, the visions faded when I opened my eyes.

Pale, trembling hands were all I saw at first. Hadvar raced to me; caught me before I crashed to my knees.

"I'm all right," I mumbled as I found my feet and tried to stand tall on my own.

His brows furrowed and he wove an arm around me. " _Let_ me," he urged in a quiet, determined tone.

I let him, for to be close to him was all the comfort I had, and I would need to make do without it soon enough. He guided us around the crowd of onlookers, who must have assembled when I had Shouted at the dead dragon. There were some Whiterun guards, a few townspeople who I didn't recognise, and a large, bewildered-looking dog who scurried away when I looked directly at it.

I turned straight ahead, trying to convince myself that the fear I had felt – no, _smelled_ – had not been fear of _me_. The village had just been attacked by a dragon; they had lost people who they had lived and worked beside for many years. Another dragon could swoop down at any moment, and finish the job, burning what and who was left. Of _course_ they feared.

Alvor and Sigrid's house was gratefully still standing, though the forge to the side seemed to have collapsed. I tore my eyes from the tangled mass of wood and iron and attempted to steel myself for those I was about to face.

But it wasn't fear or even anger waiting for us inside the house. If I had felt any lingering rage at the dragon before I stepped through that door, it vanished at the sight of the Dorthe and Sigrid's faces, and was replaced by a wan sense of disbelief, and a cruel, gut-wrenching guilt.

The evening passed as one would expect; with many tearful regrets. Sigrid seemed utterly perplexed when I handed her the necklaces Alvor had made and apologised to her. Before I had been able to utter more than a few sentences of my plea, Lydia hauled me up and outside, to face the chill of night.

" _Lydia_!"

"What are you doing?" she hissed as she shut the door behind us and turned on me; her green eyes flashing.

I stared at my feet, wondering how she, my _housecarl_ , was able to make me feel like a child being berated for some frivolous naughtiness. Shame pressed against my guilt all at once. I closed my arms around myself, and closed my eyes. It was _all_ _too much_ to bear.

"If I had gone to the Greybeards when they had first called-" I felt compelled to explain, though my voice was snatched away by a howling wind.

" _Don't_ ," Lydia pressed. "Don't you _dare_ take this upon yourself," she grated. "This isn't about you, or whatever the Divines put in you; it is about _them_."

A spark of anger prompted me to glance up to her swiftly. "Alvor is _dead_ because I wanted to spend more time with my _friends_ ," I fired.

"No," Lydia countered in a pointed hush, "he is dead because a dragon flew down from the skies and burnt everyone in its path," she insisted sternly.

I shrugged my arms around myself more firmly as a powerful gust of wind rattled the dragon's bones against one another across the road. Each _clack-clack_ resounded within me, mocking as it echoed through the despairing cavern of my mind. "But if I had been here – or better still, where I was _supposed_ to be all this time-"

"The result would have been the same, little one," Lydia cut in again in a less urgent tone. She shook her head. "These dragons will come when they like; whether you are here to face them or not."

"Yes," I squared her with a hard look. "If one thing is certain, it is that while I am _idle_ , they _will_ keep coming."

"You're hardly _idle_ ," she rolled her eyes, and seemed to miss my point. "Celeste, last night you saved the Imperial Legion and most probably, the whole of Rorikstead from a dragon. A very large and powerful dragon; larger than the beast we took on here," she motioned toward what was left of it.

Her eyes remained on it while she continued quietly. "Had you spirited yourself away to High Hrothgar months ago – or even a week ago, when you were determined to leave us at Mixwater Mill – that battle would have ended _very_ differently. Remember not only those who have been lost; but those who have been _saved_."

With a sick twist to my stomach, I remembered all too well, and clenched my eyes closed again. Hadvar would have been amongst them. "Why are we arguing, Lydia?" I asked in desperation, wincing. "You know that I _must_ go to the Greybeards now."

"I _know_ ," she sighed, leaning against the outside wall of the house and crossing her arms. "But I don't have to _like_ it," she grumbled.

I joined her in the ensuing silence, pressing my back to the wall, and staring out toward the bleached dragon bones through the gloom.

"Will you let me do _my_ duty and accompany you?" she asked in a defensive way that told me she already knew what my answer would be.

Still I shook my head. "No, Lydia," I sighed. "Stay with Lucia. Protect her. That is an order," I flashed Lydia a sideways glance, needing to be certain that there was no miscommunication between us on this matter.

Lydia sighed, leaning her head back against the building. "As you command, my Thane," she drawled eventually.

Not long after, we went back inside, for the night was growing too cold to remain where we were and our conversation was at its end.

The warmth of the hearth only skimmed the surface of my skin, for the cold I felt was deep-seated, as though emanating from my own spirit. I sat at the dinner table beside Hadvar and didn't speak again of fault, for fear of further chastisement from my housecarl.

And, Lydia had been right to drag me outside. Whether I blamed myself for Alvor's death or not; I had to be here for those I loved tonight, while I could, and not to appease my own sense of shame.

As the night wound on, Dorthe and Sigrid went to bed – they were naturally reluctant to leave one another's side. Lydia and Lucia retired to the shop that Sigrid had so lovingly prepared for me on the first night I had met them all.

Hadvar led me to his room, to rest if we could, he said. I climbed into the single bed along side him, and he drew me into his arms, holding me against his chest. Then we just lay there, awake in the darkness, for a time.

Eventually, when Hadvar's grasp on me relaxed and his breaths evened out, I turned around, and watched him. In sleep, I hoped that he would find some peace, after this harrowing day.

 _Harrowing_ , I rethought in dread, bringing my hand up to brush his hair back from his forehead. _This is how he will remember the day he made love to you._ _ **Harrowing**_ _._

I closed my eyes as this sunk in, and the ardent pledge he had made when we had been together at Mixwater Mill drifted through my thoughts.

 _I can't make love to you tonight, and leave you tomorrow. I_ _ **can't**_ _._

"I'm sorry," I whispered to him, brushing his hair back gently as he slept. "But I _must_."

–

"Celeste?"

I whipped my head around to see Hadvar sitting up in bed. His eyes were wary and his voice shook when he added, "What are you doing?"

I had to turn away from him, before I could speak, and resumed dressing to occupy the silence. Sleep had not been merciful enough to claim me, but the dark silence had given me lots of time to think, and plan. I had decided that I could not wait until dawn; I had to leave, now.

"I didn't want to make you say good bye," I told him quietly, over my shoulder. "I know you hate good byes," I added, blinking away some pesky tears that had risen to blur my vision.

"You're...not _leaving_ _now_?" he choked out.

"It's what I should have done months ago," I huffed. I was tired and aching inside and out, and more tears were on the brink of falling. I clenched my eyes shut and took a deep breath, forcing them back. _Not now. Not now, or you will never leave and everybody you love will die in fire and pain._

"Celeste, _no_ ," the rustle of bedding being shifted came to me, and then Hadvar was there, winding around me from behind; gently easing me against him. "You _promised_ me a week," he implored, holding me close. "I need you now, more than ever. So do they," he whispered, with a small nod over my shoulder, toward the door.

I shook my head as I took a shuddering breath and turned in his arms, to face him. "No. What your family – what _you_ need," I looked up, and faltered. My lip trembled as I looked into those beautiful grey eyes that I had fallen in love with so easily. Was it wrong for me to love him, to stay just a little longer-?

 _Alvor is dead._

My vision fogged and I lifted my hand to his face, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone. "What _everybody_ needs," I choked out, "is for the Dragonborn to do her duty to Skyrim, _today._ "

Hadvar's brows furrowed when he closed his eyes, nodding resolutely as he brought his hand up to press against mine, and secure me to him. "I will go with you," he vowed. "It will not take me long to pack-"

"You _can't_ ," I swallowed, extracting my hand and stepping back; a step that physically pained me to take, and clearly had a similar effect on him. I had to glance away to keep the pain in my chest and throat from bursting out of me. "Sigrid and Dorthe need you," I added, to fill the void with anything but more silence.

There was a pregnant pause, during which I tightened my armour, painfully aware of whose hands had made it with skill and care and love; hands that would be making armour no more. I brushed my tears aside and fended Hadvar's attempts at consolation off, so I could slip into my boots.

When I turned to my pack and closed it up, I heard him mutter dejectedly; "This isn't right."

"Nothing will be right again until I have finished this," I dug into the pocket of my coat. _The coat Sigrid gave you, when all you did was take from them_ , I thought bitterly.

I had placed a slip of parchment in there while I had been packing, to leave on the kitchen table when I left, but since Hadvar was awake, I would give it to him now. "Here," I extended the note. "My account number," I explained. "I want you to...have it. To use it," I added hastily. "Use it however you see fit."

He glanced to the strip of paper, but did not move to take it. "I cannot take that."

"Please," I begged, grasping his hand and placing the parchment squarely in his palm. I looked up to him with entreating eyes as I closed his fingers around it. "Maybe you can buy out your contract with the Legion?" I suggested, uncertain if such a proceeding was even possible. "The General will understand your reasons, and you can stay in Riverwood with them," I proposed.

" _Celeste_ -" Hadvar hissed painfully.

"Or, if Riverwood is too much to bear," I cut him off quickly as another idea scrambled through my frantic thoughts. "Take them to Solitude. Solitude is protected. Consider Proudspire Manor to be your home," I said in a rush. "Have Melaran remove the security wards first, but move in as soon as you like," I insisted, "for nobody in my family is left to make use of it," I added gravely.

His shoulders had sunk and his eyes were anguished, silently pleading with me to stop talking.

But I could not.

"Oh, and this-" I glanced down as I remembered, wanting, _needing_ to do this right, in case this was the end. I tugged the Passero seal out from under my armour and clothes, and pulled it over my head. I lifted it up by the chain and held it out. "You will need this," I tried to sound bright, hopeful, but couldn't keep from frowning as I spoke.

As with everything else I had offered, he glanced at it warily, but did not take it.

My feigned brightness extinguished and my lower lip trembled. " _Please_ , take it. I _have_ to know that you are safe," I welled up suddenly, and was powerless to stop the tears from trailing down my cheeks this time. "I cannot _do_ this unless I know you are _safe_ ," I bit my bottom lip; a fruitless effort to hold back my despair.

Still he said nothing, but drew me to his chest again, enclosing me in his arms, and this time I let him. My grief and the preemptive loneliness poured out of me. I was so frightened; for the Ebonhands and how they would live without Alvor; for Lydia and Lucia, and how my removal might alter their lives. For my dear shield-brothers, who I had not been able to free or even say good bye to, whose demons would torment them endlessly when they discovered that I had left. For my Jarl, who had a city to rebuild, who had led a toast in our honour, only hours ago, and for my stupid, misguided sister; for the horrors she had unleashed and the horrors she would now have to endure.

And for Hadvar. Most of all I feared for him; for his kind heart and radiant soul. I feared that if I stayed any longer, I _would_ stay for the week I had promised him, and longer, and that more would die while I stole my moments with him. I feared that if I stayed, we _would_ go to Riften, and I would trap him in a marriage that would secure him a life of solidarity should I fail at my task. He had so much love to give that I could not bear to steal it all for myself for the rest of his days, when I had so little idea of what lay ahead for me, and so little chance of survival.

I cried against him and feared for what was to become of _us_ , in case this was our forever good bye.

Hadvar shifted; his arms tightened as he leaned down to me. "Don't leave now," he bargained in a rush. "Come back to bed – stay the night, and then we'll-"

"Hadvar-"

"No, Celeste, listen to me – an hour. What difference can _one hour_ make to your journey? You need to _plan_ this," he was speaking very quickly. "You can't improvise the seven-thousand steps-"

" _Hadvar_ ," I cut him off desperately as my heart broke clean in two. I had to refuse him; I _had_ to go, and _now_.

I eased back from his embrace, stared up through swollen eyes, and resolutely pressed the Passero seal to his chest. Despite the practicality of the gesture – he would need it to access my account – I _wanted_ to leave this piece of me with him; to leave the bard, the Companion, the Thane of Whiterun, and the woman who loved him in his possession. I feared that I could not take any of those parts with me, where I was going.

His hand rose to accept it, but covered mine so I couldn't withdraw from him at once.

I glanced away. I couldn't give him false hope; could not lie to him. "I wish I could promise you...something," I shuddered, extracting my hand from underneath his, expelling a shaking puff of air as I lifted my pack.

Silence met my words, but he stepped up behind me and helped to settle my backpack on my shoulders.

I slipped my bow and quiver on next, then I turned around, staring at him. Words failed me, as they frequently did in his presence, but there was simply nothing I could possibly say or do or _sing_ , to make this good bye any easier.

Watching me solemnly all the while, he placed the Passero seal around his neck, then closed the space between us and cradled my face, kissing me with a gentle longing that twisted my chest into knots. There was no desperation to it; no more pleas or efforts to convince me to stay.

With relief, I kissed him back, and wound the brightness I felt for him into it, wishing that this feeling could stay with him as well, so that I might not miss him so keenly. But it would be a price I would pay a thousand lifetimes to ensure he was safe. I put my heart and soul into our farewell kiss, yearning for him to understand that so long as he was safe, I could endure, and face whatever Skyrim had in store for me.

When I made myself withdraw, Hadvar held the back of my neck and pressed his forehead to mine, leaving our noses touching. "Wherever you are, whatever you face. I love you. _Remember_ that."

I nodded slightly as I caught my breath. "Likewise," I whispered.

He walked with me through the black stillness of night to the boundary of Riverwood, and then we parted; his hand drifting out of mine as I continued on my path alone.

* * *

 _A/n: please don't hate me for what happened to Alvor. When he died from a random dragon attack on Riverwood in-game, I was devastated, and refused to return there in case my DB brought another dragon down on those who remained. It was one of those horrifying moments that stayed with me all these years.  
Also, Celeste and Hadvar wouldn't let me, um, fade to black. They were very determined. Apologies if it is an awkward scene; I tried really hard to make it tasteful.  
A lot happened in this chapter; speculation with Farengar was very important - I am interested to see what people's thoughts are. It does, naturally, relate back to my Oblivion fic, To the Last Septim, but you don't need to have read it to understand what's to (eventually) come.  
Finally an apology; I have a lot of work ahead of me, so it might be a few months before I'm able to update again. I assure you, I'd **much** rather be writing this._


	46. Finding Your Feet

_Chapter 46: Finding Your Feet_

Through the ink of night and the shadows cast by the surrounding woodland, the Guardian stones loomed over the small, circular stone platform between them like ancient, ominous sentinels; ready to judge me, to _crush_ me if I chose the wrong path. The rush of the river as it churned over the rocks in the valley below echoed through my mind, filling my chasm of grief with a buzzing, numbing white noise.

I stood in the centre of the platform and faced the Mage stone, extending my hand to trace the symbol on its surface.

 _Music is a type of magic, when made by the right person._

I _wanted_ to weep as I recalled Hadvar's words, spoken when we had stood together at this very stone, months ago on the first terrifying day we had met. But the tears didn't come, and I smiled a bittersweet smile as the memory of his soothing, pleasantly accented tones lent me some strength.

 _Was_ I the right person? By Farengar's logic, the Divines had made me Dragonborn for ancestral reasons, not for any skills I had now, or potential I carried within me.

 _You're kind and brave, and you saved me. Maybe you're the kind of Dragonborn that people need?_

Closing my eyes, I pressed my palm to the Mage's etchings and remembered little Lucia's kindness from yet another moment in another day that had passed what felt like a lifetime ago. As I stood there with my eyes closed and my mind quietened, more words that Lydia, Kodlak, Vilkas, Farkas, and the Jarl had spoken to me in quiet confidence at various points of my unexpected journey suffused me.

 _Save them; save those who you love,_ I told myself. _Whether you are capable of the task before you or not; you must give your all to save_ _ **them**_ _._

I opened my eyes and lowered my hand. Whether the Mage stone had delivered me a blessing or not, as with the first time I had placed my hand upon it, _something_ had centred my will. I didn't feel happier or lighter about Alvor's death or having to leave everybody I loved behind, but those feelings were no longer at the forefront of my mind and dragging me back. My spirit felt less weighed down than it had a moment ago, and my determination stepped up as though it were separate from me and offered a hand to lead the rest of my weary, aching frame along the path I had to take.

I turned my back to the stones and continued along the ascending roadway, which was littered with scattered patterns of shadow and light as the moonlight filtered through the leaves.

At this time of my life, I could not face saving all of Skyrim. The task was too great and incomprehensible; the enormity brought me to a veritable, shivering standstill. But without hesitation, I would put everything I was and had into protecting my friends; those who I considered _family_ , who trusted me and believed that I could do this.

I had failed Alvor, Kodlak and Ria, and in a sense I had even failed Skjor. I understood that I had failed my sister too, long ago, when I had merely accepted the wedge she had driven between us. I should have attempted to reach her; to question her, but instead I had shrugged and exhibited only apathy in the face of her snobbery.

If I failed again, which my mind insisted on telling me that I certainly _would_ , I would ensure that it was not for lack of trying.

The further I walked, the duller the sound of the cascading river became. In its place rose the common sounds of night; the dim rustle of leaves, the mournful hoot of an owl. A warning growl; distant enough, but still unmistakably a wolf, encouraged me to unsling my bow and nock an arrow, ready to fire should an ambush come.

A flickering, bobbing torch on the road ahead coaxed me into the woods, to hide behind the tree line. I waited, watchful and silent as the light grew nearer, and the sound of booted feet crunching against the gravel road joined the other night time noises soon enough.

The pair looked to be hunters; they were dressed in hide and both wearing bows over their shoulders. The smaller of the two men carried the torch I had seen, and the larger carried a doe over his shoulders; her glassy eyes catching the flames. I was unable to suppress my shudder, not only at her unblinking glare, but at the reminder that I was in the wilds, on my own, and at any moment, I might be attacked.

Once they were gone, I decided that I would stick to the trees, as I had done each time I had needed to travel between Whiterun and Riverwood, on my own. I did not want to be ambushed by the Aldmeri Dominion again, or anyone else for that matter.

I withdrew my map from the side of my pack, squinting through the dim light as I tried to determine exactly where I was, and which way I should travel. Until I had seen the torch, I had vaguely thought to follow the roads and road signs, but was yet to see any of the latter.

I grimaced when I compared my map to my surrounds, and determined where I was. I had recently passed the Guardian stones, and Lake Ilinalta was to the north, which meant that I was in Falkreath Hold, and close to Helgen; a place that I had no wish to return to for the rest of my days. I flushed as I realised that I had even been walking the _wrong_ way, for a time, consumed by my thoughts. I would have to back track, but if I skirted just north of Helgen, I might be able to use the winding, mountainous pass to the east to make my way to Invarstead.

It was the start of a plan. I folded the map and tucked it into my coat pocket for ease of access. I had a feeling that I would need to refer to it many times over the next few hours.

Picking up my bow, I glanced around, and then pushed on in what I thought was an easterly direction. Every step took me closer and closer the last place in Skyrim I had hoped to lay eyes on again.

–

It was clear, even as pre-dawn muted the lines and colours of the structure in greys, that Helgen was occupied, though minimal effort had been made to repair that which the dragon had destroyed.

Men and women in rough leathers and furs patrolled what remained of the high walls. I paused, watching them with interest, wondering if they were hunters as well, until a terrified scream tore through the night, then was swiftly muffled.

My blood turned to ice and I froze as those patrolling the walls turned nonchalantly toward the centre of the settlement. The one I was nearest to even laughed. The sound of somebody pleading for their life and sobbing drifted to me on the winds.

Those on patrol had their backs to me now, so I took my chance, and bolted. Guilt swept through me for leaving whoever was being attacked to their fate. As I hurried away from the former township through the woods, wondering if I would be shot in the leg and dragged into Helgen myself at any moment, I wondered furiously how a large troop of bandits could have been allowed to take up residence in a _settlement_ without the Empire doing anything to stop them. It must have been on account of the war; the Imperial Legion's resources were simply spread thin and committed elsewhere.

Eventually, as my heart continued to hammer in my chest and spur me forward, I found the small pass that led through the mountains. It was with a sigh of relief that I stepped around the large boulders that partially obscured it and commenced my ascent, slowing from frantic run to a brusque walk. I had to remain on this road, for the walls either side of it were sheer and unscalable, but it was more like a goat track; I doubted a cart would be slim enough to fit between the rocks, and I told myself that I was far enough from Helgen now that its inhabitants would not pursue me.

As the sky above paled, the air grew drier. My eyes stung as I blinked, both from the cold and my mounting fatigue. I had not slept since that night in the tent at Rorikstead. Every breath I took wheezed through me and ached as icy prickles hanging in the very air gushed in to burn my lungs.

I resolved that I would not, did not _deserve_ to rest, until I had reached Invarstead. Invarstead stood at the base of the seven-thousand steps; it was the place where I would recover, before I climbed them, as countless pilgrims before me had done.

As the sun's rays topped the highest mountains with burnt gold, I saw that it was dirty snow clumped below the snowberry bushes, and not earth. The craggy grey boulders of the mountain pass were interspersed with patchy snow as well, wherever it could find purchase, along with dried out, snaking creepers; most of which had lost their leaves; either dormant or dead.

A shudder rippled over me as I passed a cave, which as with Helgen, showed signs of recent and nasty habitation. There were supply barrels clustered around its entrance, which would have convinced me that it was an active mine had it not been for the splattered blood stains at the cave's entrance and outer walls, including what was unmistakably a human hand print that left trails along the rock wall, as though the owner of the hand had been trying to cling to the rock as they were bodily dragged into the cave.

Relieved that I had not stumbled by _this_ ominous place in the dark, I doubled my pace. Whether the occupants were bandits or cultists of some kind, I did _not_ want to cross paths with them. I could always _FUS_ and run, but if I ran, I would be chased.

It wasn't long after I had left the cave behind me that the pass began to descend and the rock walls either side of me grew taller, curving over me for spans at a time. From underneath one of these overhangs, I heard the crack and rustle of movement from some distance back; an echo almost, of running feet.

 _Pursuit_ , I realised suddenly. Darting to the side of the pass immediately and pressing my back to a boulder, I slid down its face into a crouch behind a snowberry bush and searched the direction I had come with wide, fearful eyes.

Perhaps the occupants of the bloodied cave had heard, or _smelled_ me. My stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought.

 _Then why do you try to hide? If they can smell you, they will find you._

No matter how I stared, I saw no lights, no people; no obvious signs of pursuit. I could no longer hear what I had taken for running footfalls, either, and as time ticked away, I told myself that I must have imagined it.

Telling and believing myself were two separate matters. I leapt back onto the path at a run and bolted down the pass, sliding whenever my feet landed on a particularly icy rock. Somehow, I managed to keep my balance.

When the pass levelled out and the scenery gradually changed from jagged and icy to autumnal trees and carpets of dried leaves and spiky-looking brush, I slowed down.

 _The Rift,_ I thought with some incredulity as I leaned over and grasped my knees, gasping. As my breaths came easier, I staggered toward one of the many tall, speckled trees and leaned against its trunk.

Glancing up to the dappled light filtering through its multitude of orange-hued leaves, I laughed at myself through a wheeze; at my idiocy, my unpreparedness, and in relief that I had made it this far, even if I was jumping at the slightest sound.

When I pulled my map out of my pocket and glanced over it, I felt a warm prickle of joy join my tumultuous emotions; I was _so_ close to Invarstead that I might be there, I might be able to _sleep_ , within the hour.

Map tucked away and bow at the ready, heartened by the thought of a warm bed at the inn, I pushed myself off the tree.

"There's a bear ahead."

My heart leapt into my throat and I whipped around, lifting my bow and staring in horror at the speaker.

He frowned, clearly bewildered by my reaction. His silvery eyes flickered in confusion to my weapon, aimed at him. "You all right, shield-sister?"

"Farkas!" I hissed, lowering my bow as I clenched my eyes closed in an attempt to steady myself; steady my thumping heart. "What in _Shor's_ name are you doing here?" I bit out.

"Keep your voice down," Farkas grumbled in a lowered tone, then booted feet crunched through the leaf-litter, growing louder as he approached. "I can take a bear, but I don't want to, after the chase you've led me on this morning."

My eyes flew open. Farkas had come to a halt in front of me. I stared up, and whispered accusingly, "Did _Vilkas_ make you come after me?"

Farkas' frown persisted as he shuffled on the spot. "Nah. Well, not really. It was all Lydia's-"

" _Lydia_?!" I spluttered, aghast. _How_? I had left Lydia in _Riverwood_ the previous night.

"Uh," he tilted his head in a considering manner. "Yeah, sort of. I could hear what she said to Vilkas," he seemed a little on edge. "Through the walls, you know?" the corner of his mouth quirked uncomfortably. "Vilkas asked me to come find you, after she left."

I nodded hurriedly as my mind knitted together the fragments he was telling me. Lydia must have gone to Whiterun during the night, straight to Vilkas, and told him that I was leaving for High Hrothgar. "Okay, sure, but Farkas," I squared him with a hard look, "I can't come back with you. It is _my_ duty to -"

"She said you'd start on about your duty," Farkas cut me off as he cast a glance around us. Uncrossing his arms, he placed a large hand on my shoulder, and guided me out from under the tree with a flick of his head.

"Can't talk here, shield-sister," he grumbled. "C'mon."

Sighing, brimming with frustration, not to mention mortification as adrenaline continued to surge through my veins, I trailed after him.

Farkas led us on a winding path north and said nothing more. I stared at his huge, armoured form, wondering exactly why he had come? I had to admit that along side my exasperation over whatever Lydia had said to Vilkas, and my confusion over what Farkas' purpose here actually was, I felt relieved to see him, for a part of me had believed that I would never see my shield-brothers again.

The woodlands grew sparser the further north we walked, and soon I could make out a small bridge before us as we rejoined the road. Beyond that I caught the first signs of dwellings that I had seen since Helgen; a dull brown roof made of thatch.

Farkas drew to a halt, letting go of my arm to cross his, and I stepped up beside him, looking over the bridge. The building was wrought of stone and in good repair, and the wooden sign hung below it, while too distant to read, told me that it might be the town inn or local store. Beyond it were a few more buildings of similar construction, but Invarstead seemed to be even smaller than Riverwood, which came as a bit of a surprise.

"Are you guiding me to High Hrothgar, brother?" I asked Farkas quietly.

Farkas huffed a laugh, and I felt his attention flicker to me, though mine was still on the hamlet before us.

"You aren't getting rid of me that easily."

I glanced to him. While he was turned toward the village, his eyes were on me, as ever glazed by the curse of his inner wolf. Beyond that, there was amusement, and a secret; the source of which I could only guess at, until he decided to explain himself.

 _ **If**_ _he decides to explain himself._

"I don't understand," I told him plainly. "You mean to _remain_ at High Hrothgar?" my brows furrowed.

"You lead, I'll follow," Farkas smirked. "Whatever road you tread and wherever you lay your head. Those were Vilkas' orders."

I stammered hastily, in disbelief; "But – _why_? You will have _nothing_ to do most of the time, if the Greybeards even _allow_ it, and _Vilkas_ needs you."

"Hmm," Farkas half-shrugged, then started to cross the bridge. "Lydia said you'd say something like that, too."

Sighing at his reticence, I fell into step beside him, and shook my head in bemusement. "She...knows me well," I murmured.

Farkas chuckled as we mounted the stairs to the inn; the Vilemyr, according to the sign. "Come on, sister. You need food and sleep before we take on the seven-thousand steps."

I widened my eyes as I nodded, sighing as I let myself actually _feel_ my tiredness. Accepting that our short and quite confusing conversation was likely to be all the explanation I would get from Farkas, I determined that I would write to Vilkas for the full story, when I was at liberty to. My muscles ached and protested, and my feet dragged as I clomped toward the inn's front door.

"And a bath," Farkas apparently wasn't finished. He turned the handle and pushed the door inward before adding, "I can smell Hadvar _all_ over you," in a teasing murmur.

I staggered on the landing, meeting Farkas' eyes, stunned at his implication as blood rushed to my cheeks. He chuckled and walked into the inn before me.

Any reply I could have mustered was silenced by embarrassment and I slunk in after my shield-brother. I was at once grateful for the dark emptiness of the common room. I glanced around the interior of the Vilemyr to try and distract myself from the knowledge Farkas' werewolf senses gave him about me; about _Hadvar and I_.

The small hearth was low with only a few dull coals stubbornly glowing at its centre. It was early; the inn was unlikely to see much, if any patronage until later in the day, aside from Farkas and I obviously. There was a well-established bard's station near the entryway; a lute of average quality rested on a chair which was draped in beautiful red and gold cloths, decorated with sprigs of snowberry leaves and surrounded by bunches of tundra cotton at its base. Taking in the careful preparations, I wondered who the resident bard was, and how many tips this tiny, out of the way village brought them? The rest of the common room was clean enough, and a few beams of sunlight filtered through the high windows, creating more light than the fire did but giving the inn a certain sense of disuse.

The common room was empty and it was difficult to take much detail in while my heart hammered wildly in my chest. While Farkas left to locate the publican, I told myself sternly to calm down, but as I leaned against one of the tables and stared up to the dust motes drifting through the rafters as the sunlight caught them, I wished, rather unfairly, that Vilkas had come instead.

Vilkas was not adverse to teasing me when the opportunity presented itself – far from it – but he would not have been anywhere _near_ as forward as Farkas.

 _Seriously? He had no hesitation in teasing you about making Hadvar's babies, when you were at Mixwater. Vilkas would have drawn this out for days. Farkas has taken the first chance he got to mention it, but will move on now._

I made an effort to shrug my discomfort off as I smirked at the truth. Farkas did not mean to invade my privacy, and wasn't blessed with the wit and tact of his smaller brother. But at least that was likely to be all I would hear from him about it.

"...expected at this time of day," a low voice sounded from the hallway, and I turned my attention toward it in time to see a tall, balding Nord wearing a night shirt hurry into the common room and make for the bar. Farkas was striding behind him and glanced toward me with a triumphant grin, tilting his head; his wordless signal that I join him.

I couldn't suppress a small smile upon seeing his open, unfaltering grin – and hurried over.

The publican pulled a large, heavy book out, and thumped it open on the bar. He cast me an idle glance as I approached, and I smiled encouragingly in wordless greeting. He did a double take, and his eyes were suddenly awash with very evident fear as they flickered over me, rife with caution.

"Oh," Farkas picked up on the change in him, of course. "She's not who you're thinking she is," he murmured blithely. "This is Celeste Passero – the _proper_ Dragonborn."

Farkas' words didn't seem to alter him. The publican hazarded my shield-brother a more wary glance before his eyes were swiftly back on me. "If you say so, sir. But, I don't want any trouble, ma'am."

Internally sighing, wondering what Giselle had done _here_ , of all places, I dipped my head respectfully. "I swear, I have never met you before," I tried for open honesty. "You must have crossed paths with my sister, who has, for some time now, been masquerading as me. I'm sorry about that."

" _Sister_?" he muttered, somewhat aghast.

 _Giselle_ , I cursed again, then nodded as I lifted my head. "I sincerely apologise if she caused you any trouble."

The large Nord man tittered a nervous laugh.

Farkas shifted a little closer to me, and leaned on the bar in effort to draw the publican's attention back to him. "We're bound for High Hrothgar," he cleared his throat. "We need the room for a couple of hours."

The publican turned his eyes back down to his book hastily. "Yes – of course," he cleared his throat. His eyes glanced back up to me, as though he couldn't help but stare. "But I'll need your word, ma'am," he swallowed nervously.

"My word?" I questioned quietly. I put my hand on Farkas' arm to still him, for I felt that he was about to growl at the man.

Nodding, the Nord tapped his book idly; a nervous motion if ever I had seen one. "Yes, your word that you'll leave our Lynly alone," he frowned. "She's a good girl. She's not done anything wrong, and I can vouch for her on all accounts."

"Lynly?" I blinked in surprise. "I have never heard that name before in my life, but all right. I swear to you that I will not speak a word to Lynly...whoever she is."

"I'm not making fun of you, ma'am and I'd appreciate if-"

"I'm not suggesting that you are, sir-"

"Wilhelm, ma'am."

"I'm not suggesting that you are making fun of anybody, Master Wilhelm," I lowered my head again in belated introduction. "You obviously care a great deal for this Lynly and I apologise if my sister took it upon herself to antagonise her."

Though curiosity now piqued within me, Wilhelm chose to say no more, and turned his eyes down to the log book. He was still clearly on edge as he exhaled a long breath and widened his eyes. "Celeste, was it?" he asked in a distracted manner.

"Mm hmm," Farkas supplied before I could. "Room and a bath. Won't be needing any food, at this time."

Wilhelm wrote in his book for a moment as he shook his head. "Bath water won't be ready for hours," he nodded toward the hearth as though it explained everything.

"That's all right," I replied hurriedly, flickering Farkas a glance. Whether he was here to see me safely to High Hrothgar or further, I could certainly speak for myself. "We will make do."

It wasn't long after that Wilhelm took my forty gold – I had a feeling that he was overcharging me, but at that moment I truly didn't care – and led Farkas and I to a small room, furthest from the common room at the back of the inn. With another small frown, he opened the door for me.

"All yours, ma'am. Mind you keep the noise down, least for a couple of hours, if you please," he flickered Farkas a hasty glance.

Refusing to speculate on what he must have been assuming about Farkas and I, I thanked him and stepped into the room. It was a thin space, with a small double bed covered in layers of thick furs pushed to one wall and a chest of draws opposite it. This left a small gap that I doubted Farkas would be able to walk comfortably through, to a permanently sealed window at the back of the room with frosted glass and thick, dark brown curtains, under which a plain wooden table and chair had been shoved.

Farkas followed me in, closing and locking the door behind us. "Hmph," he hmphed. "You'd better get your sleep now," he grumbled.

I turned to him, confused by his manner. "You don't think he believed I am not Giselle?"

Farkas tilted his head uncertainly. "Can't be sure of what he believes, but he doesn't want us here. So, get your sleep while you can, hey?" he nodded to the bed beyond me.

Sighing – of _course_ Giselle was going to continue to crop up in my life no matter where I roamed to make it more difficult – I turned back to the bed and collapsed onto it on my front. "I still want you to tell me why you are really here," I mumbled into the covers.

It sounded as though Farkas laughed, though it was little more than a bark. His hands fell to my shoulder straps, and I felt him tugging my backpack off. "To make sure you don't die."

"Ugh, get off," I pushed myself up, shrugging off my pack and bow for myself. "I'm not a child," I muttered to him as I placed both on top of the chest of draws opposite.

"Doesn't mean you can't die," he took a step back. I could feel that his eyes were still expectantly on me.

I refused to meet his gaze as I slipped out of my boots. "Farkas," I started quietly, fumbling with the tiny chain links that secured my left boot to my leg. "I _am_ glad you are here," I felt compelled to say, though I knew that he would have been able to sense as much. "But you should never have come. I am the Dragonborn that Akatosh _chose_ for Skyrim, whether you believe me capable of completing whatever that means I must do, or not."

Finally meeting his eyes at this last, I saw more confusion in his silvery depths. "Why do you think everything is about being Dragonborn?" the corner of his mouth turned down as he spoke. "You swore an oath to Kodlak that you are a Companion, didn't you?" he asked in a drawl.

I rolled my eyes as I looked back down to focus on removing my other boot. That was how he, and Vilkas and Lydia, were going to justify his presence?

"Don't roll your eyes," he shook his head, almost chuckling in response. "C'mon, Celeste – a promise you made by choice has got to mean more than some otherworldly skills that the Divines pushed onto you without your consent."

I said nothing as I tugged off my armour, and didn't miss how he chose his words. Of course he was referring to _their_ curse, as much as he was mine, if being Dragonborn could even be likened to a curse. When I was done, I flopped back onto the bed in the tunic and leggings I'd worn underneath, to stare at the ceiling. I said nothing while my mind ticked over his – _their –_ reasoning. Farkas didn't expect me to turn around and go back to Whiterun with him. He had already told me – in his way – that he was going to stay with me, for the long haul – however long that ended up being, and whatever that time required of me – of _him_.

With the weight of Alvor's death fresh in my mind, it was not difficult to understand that my frustration, and _discomfort_ at his appearance, stemmed from the responsibility that I felt toward my friends, and the keen losses we had endured while I had been busy with other tasks. I feared that despite Farkas' experience and stature, and yes despite his presence more than tripling _my_ chances of survival; if he remained with me on wherever this Dragonborn journey led me, he might die if I made a wrong choice somewhere along the way.

I couldn't bare it. The prospect of losing him – particularly as travelling to Ysgramor's tomb was out of the question for the time being – clenched at my heart like a vice. If Farkas died, his soul would be condemned to Hircine's realm; a fate that I knew the twins _feared_. If Farkas died while accompanying me, Vilkas would never forgive me for losing him, or himself for making him follow me.

Farkas shifted in the corner of my eye, back toward the table at the end of the room. "Vilkas...told me to ask you something," he murmured, more quiet and hesitant than before.

Arching my back and turning my head around on the bed so I could see him, though his form was upside-down from where I lay, I waited for him to continue. What had he picked up from me? Had he sensed that I had been thinking about his brother, or about their curse and what it meant if they died before I was able to free them?

Farkas eased down onto one of the chairs by the table; the wood creaked in protest under his bulk. "He asks if you can bring me with you...for him. Because," he sighed, shaking his head with a bit of a bemused smile as he settled against the back of the chair and crossed his arms. "Because being with you will make it easier for me too, you know? That's what he asks you to do."

I regarded him for a moment, but his eyes were on the floorboards between us. Vilkas had sent Farkas so that he could protect me, and so that I in turn could appease his wolf. Of _course_ he had. There was always more to Vilkas' schemes than met the eye. It was never, as he was wont to remind me constantly, _all about me_.

Eventually, I had to reply. "And what about your brother's struggle, with his wolf? Is he to endure it alone, while you find your peace?" I asked quietly.

I felt wretched and cruel as soon as I had uttered the words, for while Farkas half-shrugged, he seemed quite uncertain when he spoke. "He said..." he faltered. The large Nord shifted in his seat as though he was uncomfortable sitting, and the flicker of sadness that crossed his face made him seem smaller and younger than he was.

The urge to hug him coursed through me, but I didn't give into it as Farkas found his voice.

"Vilkas said that...knowing you were alive was enough for him. Said that was how it worked, when he went to Falkreath."

I could have argued the point with him. I could have reminded him that Vilkas had no idea of how my influence over their werewolves worked – none of us did, for that matter. I could have reminded him of what Vilkas had told me about their journey to Ysgramor's tomb; about how his wolf had tormented him, the further he had walked away from me.

But I couldn't do it to him, I realised. Farkas trusted his brother's judgement – no, he _relied_ upon Vilkas' word; Vilkas' confidence. And I would be a beast to take that from him.

I found myself nodding as I relaxed and turned back to face the ceiling once more. "Okay," I murmured, through a quiet yawn. "Thank you, shield-brother. I am glad that we will be able to help each other, in the days to come. I am only sorry that Vilkas can't be with us."

The simple act of accepting his company seemed to unknot some deep-seated despair that I hadn't realised I'd been carrying, and as though they had been waiting for this moment, my eyes gratefully slid shut.

Farkas murmured something by way of reply about somebody needing to be Harbinger, but I barely heard it as I sank into unconsciousness.

–

Farkas let me sleep for most of the day, and when he begrudgingly woke me late afternoon to sheepishly ask what I wanted to do, I told him that we had better stay on at the Vilemyr until morning.

"I don't think it would be wise for anybody to climb the seven-thousand steps in the dark," I murmured blearily as I sat up and reached for my boots. "Whether the Greybeards have summoned them or not," I added in a murmur.

"Stay here. You should sleep some more," he pushed past me, making for the door. "I'll get us some food-"

"No, I'm all right," I insisted, yawning as I eased one foot into the leather. "I'm rested. I'll come with you."

Farkas was quiet, but when I glanced up to him through my tousled hair, I saw that he wore a worried frown.

"That Wilhelm won't be happy to see you again."

I tugged my boots tight and stood; the last of my lingering weariness vanishing as anger flashed through me. "I will not hide in this room because of something my _sister_ did. Wait for me – please," I insisted, tight-lipped.

I could feel Farkas watching me closely as I dug around in my bag and extracted a plain, warm, knee-length tunic. I threw it on over my undershirt, but he said nothing and did as I asked, and waited for me to be ready.

Tugging my fingers through my hair in an attempt to untangle it, then shoving it back from my face into a hasty ponytail that I secured with a strip of leather, I grasped my coin purse in my fist and nodded toward the door. "Let's go."

Farkas sighed as I shifted past him. "Whatever you think is best," he drawled uncertainly.

I couldn't hear my footfalls as we walked toward the common room; the inn was a mite busier than when we had first come upon it that morning. Interspersed between the rumble of conversation, the clank of tankards and cutlery, and the crackle of hearth fire, came a strain of lute music, and a sweet, soft melody.

" _Oh minotaur, oh minotaur, A beast of rage and ignoble glaring._ _Oh minotaur, oh minotaur, None can deny your noble bearing._ "

I smiled and wrinkled my nose at the bard's choice of song – _Ode to Minotaur_ was more often sung by children than trained bards; it was exceedingly plain.

 _Perhaps it was not her choice at all,_ I offered. A tavern bard was at the mercy of their audience, of course, and often could not simply sing as they liked. I had been spoiled with the Companions, with regards to my own performances.

Farkas and I entered the common room and the sounds became clearer and louder all at once. The publican's eyes rested on me, but then his gaze hastily darted away and across the room from the bar he stood behind.

My shield-brother sighed, obviously having seen or sensed the reaction, and pushed past me, making directly for Wilhelm. "I'll go order something, and pay him for another night," he grumbled. "You find us a seat, hmm?"

I nodded, feeling perplexed, but let him go. We didn't need to pay Wilhelm any more for the room – we had not spent a single night in it yet – but if money would ease the discomfort caused by whatever my sister had done, it was a price worth paying.

Drifting to a seat close to the hearth, for despite my added layer, I felt a little cold, I settled into a chair around an empty table, and glanced around the inn idly, vaguely interested by the types of people it attracted.

They all appeared to be locals. There was a group of miners at the table opposite the hearth; the six had clearly finished work for the day, and were deep in their cups and a friendly card game. A tall Nord woman and a thin Bosmer male sat at the next table, agonising over something, from the looks of their expressions. I crossed my brows at them, glancing toward the bard at the end of the room as she wound the _Minotaur_ song to its close. She was a very pretty Nord woman with short, honey-blonde curls brushed back from her face, wearing a white shirt that gathered over her shoulders to leave them exposed, and a rather demure, dark brown skirt and sensible boots. I couldn't reason her costume; was she going for sensual, or coy refinement? She seemed to exhibit an odd mixture of both, but then, perhaps she had been resident in the Vilemyr for long enough to understand how to get the most out of her regular customers.

Three more miners were seated at the table closest to her; their eyes raking over her as they nodded and clapped. The bard smiled at them and lowered her eyes in appreciation. One of their party, an Orc, rose and slipped her a coin, muttering something to her as he did – doubtlessly their next request.

Though the bard intrigued me, for it was always interesting to see how others of my profession operated, I dragged my eyes away from her. At the table closest to the one I had sat at was young woman about my age who was taking dinner with another woman who looked old enough to be her mother. There was little conversation between them. The young woman had an air of defeat about her, and her doe-eyes drifted sadly to the door every now and then, as though she hoped somebody would join them, but understood that they never might.

 _So many lives and stories,_ I mused, _all existing outside of the dragons, and the war._

My musings were cut off suddenly as the bard struck up the much-hated opening chords of _Ragnar the Red_ , in what I had to admit was an amateurish vein. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth in an attempt to block out the loathed tune, I startled as Farkas thumped noisily into the chair beside me.

"Here," he pushed a cup of wine toward me, then placed a tankard three times its size of what smelled like cheap ale down in front of himself. "You don't have to drink it, if you don't want to," he shrugged. "Food's on its way," he added, crossing his brows a little at me.

I had just been staring at him. "Oh. I mean, thank you," I shook myself out of my stupor – my mind had still been focussed on fazing out _Ragnar_. I offered him a small smile. "Did you manage to appease the worrisome Wilhelm?" I whispered as I wrapped my fingers around the cup and brought it closer. I would take a sip, since he had gone to the trouble of ordering it for me.

Farkas half-shrugged. "For now, I think."

Without ceremony, he gulped down what looked like half of his ale in one chug. I watched him in vague bemusement; though I had seen him do this before in the mead hall, the sight never failed to astonish me. Why anyone would _want_ to drink anything so quickly baffled me, but the mechanics of the action were just as perplexing.

When he lowered his tankard, he glanced toward the bard, who was still in the process of murdering _Ragnar_. "Haven't heard that one for a while," his eyes drifted back to me. "How come you never sing it for us?"

Brought at once back to the song, I groaned and leaned down, thunking my head against the table top. "Because some songs deserve to _die_ and be forgotten," I said through my teeth.

Farkas laughed. When I lifted my head to observe him again, for I had expected him to say something more, he was still grinning and about to take another drink.

 _This is Farkas,_ I reminded myself pointedly. He would not speak for the sake of it. Just _watching_ him contentedly drinking his ale opposite me left me feeling somewhat separated from myself, as though I had stepped out of my reality and into some surreal alternative where I _didn't_ have to leave those I loved to complete whatever the Divines had in store for me.

Despite all that had passed and all that was ahead us, he seemed so...so _happy_. Kodlak had written of Farkas' tendency to neither dwell on the past nor worry about the future, and at the time of reading, I had wondered if it would be to his detriment, for how could one grow if there was no learning from one's mistakes, or goals to push one forward?

But here and now, he seemed so calm and in control of his life, his _world_ , and even his beast. Perhaps there were some life lessons I could learn from Farkas; lessons that would help me to bear the enormity of the task ahead.

 _Vilkas' doing,_ my mind chimed in pointedly. I sighed a laugh and realised it had to be the case, as mercifully, the final notes of _Ragnar_ were strummed.

Farkas' eyes travelled from the bard's station to me again; his brows furrowing as he met my eyes. "Do I have something on my face?"

The innocent way in which he asked made me grin, and I sat up a little straighter. "Well, sure, your makeup is running a bit around your eyes, but-"

"Makeup?" he choked out. "This is _warpaint_ , sister."

Shrugging smugly, I glanced away and observed as one of the three miners requested another song. "Kohl is kohl, brother," I murmured loftily, just as Wilhelm arrived bearing two plates of food.

The publican dipped his head uncertainly toward me in greeting, but said nothing as he put our dinners in front of us; small bowls of some kind of stew, roasted chicken and grilled leeks. "You be needing another mug of that, sir?" he glanced towards Farkas' tankard.

"It's Farkas," he told the publican, dragging his slightly narrowed eyes from me.

I laughed quietly at my food, unable to suppress my glee at getting some payback for his _smelling of Hadvar_ comment from earlier.

"And yeah," he added as he gulped down the last of his first drink. "Keep 'em coming. This might be the last ale I see for a while."

Wilhelm collected his empty tankard and stood tall as he turned back to me. "Is the wine not to your tastes, Lady Dragonborn? I have other vintages in the cellar that might-"

"Please. Call me Celeste," I was still smiling cheekily when I regarded the publican. "And the red is perfectly to my tastes," I told him. I hadn't tried it yet, but didn't want to cause him any trouble. "But I'm afraid I can't keep my shield-brother's pace," I flickered a smirk Farkas' way.

"You don't try hard enough, milk drinker," Farkas mumbled under his breath through a narrow-eyed smirk of his own.

I rolled my eyes at him as I turned back to Wilhelm. The publican was frowning at me still, but I felt it was more a tilt of confusion, than the wary uncertainty he had worn until now. The thought that I wasn't behaving as he expected of me, or rather, of my sister, made me inexplicably happy.

"Shield-brother, you say? So...you're a Companion, Lady Dragonborn?" his eyes flickered over me swiftly.

I nodded as my smile persisted. A grandiose reply wound its way out of my lips. "Companion of Jorrvaskr, Thane of Whiterun, and bard of the College of Solitude at your service," I told him.

" _And_ the Dragonborn," Farkas added dryly through a half-smile. "You forgot that one."

Wilhelm didn't seem to hear him as his gaze momentarily drifted across the common room. "A bard as well, hmm?" he murmured thoughtfully, crossing his arms as his eyes lingered on his own bard.

I was somewhat surprised that he made nothing of my being Thane of a Hold, but it would have been haughty of me to say it again. Instead, I settled for widening my eyes at Farkas pointedly.

"You really are a different woman, aren't you?" Wilhelm shook his head as he turned, but not toward the bar. Instead, he sauntered toward his resident songstress.

I watched him leave with some amusement as Farkas tucked into his dinner. Duly reminded that a plate of perfectly good hot food was before me, I took up my spoon as my smile persisted.

My brightness of mood was Farkas' doing; of this I was certain. Had I been alone with only my thoughts for company, I might have retreated into my loneliness and grief, and already commenced my ascent to the Greybeards in the cold dead of night, mourning Alvor's loss, keenly feeling Hadvar's absence, and certain that I was not adequate for the task ahead. But with my shield-brother by my side to both lend me perspective, and _make_ me keep going, I had the sudden thought that...well, maybe I _could_ do this?

Maybe I _could_ be the Dragonborn that Skyrim deserved?

Wilhelm wandered by us again, making for the bar this time, and his bard struck up a tune that I didn't recognise. I ate and listened, intrigued as the simple notes travelled around the room, warming it.

Then she sung: " _Our Hero, our Hero, claims a warrior's heart; I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes._ "

I choked on my food and spun around to face the bard in incredulity. Her head was downturned; she was focussed on her hands as they drifted across the frets and plucked the strings, as though she was still in the process of learning the tune for herself.

" _With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord arts; Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes._ "

"Gods," I turned back swiftly, staring at my meal as my eyes widened and cheeks flamed. There was a new song being sung in taverns, about the Dragonborn. A song about... _me_. Had this bard written it, or was it already in circulation at other inns as well?

"Oh, I _like_ this bard," Farkas' chuckles resounded between my ears. "We've _gotta_ remember this one for the mead hall. You could sing it, right?" he grinned wolfishly at me.

Grasping hold of my wine cup, I took a gulp and sent him a withering look.

–

As it eventuated, the _bard_ was the Lynly that my sister had somehow frightened. Lynly sang on tirelessly throughout the night, interspersing the requests of the miners near her with songs about the Dragonborn, including the legends, the current strife, and deeds that I was yet to achieve.

But as the night wound on, I found myself relaxing, despite being lumped as the hero Lynly's songs painted. I had to admit; the wine helped to this end, and also allowed me to enjoy the night for what it was, rather than think about what was to come.

Farkas must have seen or felt the change in me and understood how it had been possible, for he asked Wilhelm to bring the rest of the bottle for me, and then another when I had eventually finished it. Rather uncharacteristically, I allowed it, and told him that it was possibly the best idea he had had all day.

By the time the common room closed up for the night and Lynly had sung her last song, I had spent a very merry evening with my shield-brother, and was blissfully warm and fuzzy, giggling as I refuted Farkas' claims that I was drunk. I let him tow me to our room, where I crashed down onto the bed fully clothed, and sank into a black, dreamless sleep; at that moment, without a care in the world.

I woke with a dry mouth and a thumping headache, and when my vision cleared I was able to focus on the low buzz of Farkas' morning greeting and a meaty fist holding a water skin in my line of sight. Looking further up through my messy curls, I saw my shield-brother looking down at me with the corner of his mouth turned up in a knowing smirk.

"Drink," he insisted, reaffirming his offering. "We need to get moving."

Groaning, I sat up, and my stomach churned threateningly. I took hold of the water skin, but only took a couple of small mouthfuls. "Oh Gods, Farkas," I croaked, clutching my belly as I blindly passed the water back to him. "What have I done?"

Farkas chuckled as he took it. "First hangover?"

I palmed my eyes and begged my nausea to abate; I had to climb _mountains_ today. " _This_ is not a hangover – I'm going to _die_ ," I moaned. "The Dragonborn is _dead_."

"You're not going to _die_ ," Farkas scoffed. The bed creaked and shifted, and I glanced through my hair to see that he'd sat on the edge. My pack was on his lap, and he was rifling through it.

I watched and wondered what he was looking for, but didn't open my mouth in case my stomach took its chance to vacate its contents.

When he pulled a couple of red bottles out of my bag, my eyes widened and I leapt toward him, grasping desperately for them. In part, I regretted the sudden movement at once, but my need for a potion outweighed everything else.

Farkas held the bottles up and out of reach as he fended me off with his free hand. "Sit _down_ – I don't want your sick all over me."

Once I had obeyed he relinquished the potions. I drank greedily, ignoring the foul taste for once. They would fix everything.

"Go easy, all right?" he rose, moving toward the table by the window. "You might need some of those, on the road."

I nodded quickly as I upended the second potion and swallowed the thick, bitter liquid, watching my shield-brother as he took a seat. He was dressed in his armour – though I doubted that he had undressed, for he wouldn't have slept – and his pack was on the table top, closed up next to his swords. He was ready to go.

Feeling guilty, for many reasons, I pushed myself off the bed. Yes, I had experienced a ridiculous number of highs and lows and all manner of stress in between over the past few days, and yes, Lynly's songs about the Dragonborn had made me uneasy at first, but I shouldn't have kept drinking the way that I had.

 _Can't change it now,_ I told myself as I steadied myself on my feet. _Best get on with your day._

Gratefully, my head didn't explode when I took a step toward my armour. "Don't ever let me drink that much again, okay?" I murmured as I chucked off the thicker tunic, and wiggled my tasset up over my hips.

I could hear the grin in Farkas' reply. "Can't promise you that, sister. You are _really_ funny when you're drunk."

Flushing as I tugged the chestpiece over my head, I flickered him a wary glance. "I am?"

"Mm hmm. Some people get angry when they drink, but you get all...floaty, and relaxed," he waved his hand toward me. "And _talkative_ ," he added with a laugh. "Wow," he shook his head in reflection. "I thought you talked a lot _before_."

"I'm glad _you_ enjoyed yourself," I murmured as I pushed my hair back and rapidly braided it. "I don't think I want to know what I said," I added.

Farkas and I left the room soon after, and while my shield-brother still wore a rather smug look on his face, he said no more on what I had said and done the previous night.

After bidding farewell to Wilhelm, who seemed to be in a much better mood that morning, we stepped out into the fresh, crisp morning. As the cool air fanned my cheeks, it managed to somehow slough off the last of what Farkas had assured me _was_ my first hangover.

I faced the beautiful, clear day, closing my eyes and breathing in a deep breath of sweet, cold air. It wasn't as though I had ever been able to keep any secrets from my shield-brothers, not really; they seemed to know more about my desires and needs than I did, at times. Whatever I had said to Farkas the previous night – and it was odd to acknowledge that I had no memory of it – he probably already knew the whole intrinsically, as it was.

My shield-brother and I walked down the main street past the small farms and shops, all of which showed signs of activity. The people of Invarstead got to work early, it seemed. I recognised a few faces I had seen at the inn the night before, though everybody was too busy to pay us any mind.

My small smile faltered as Farkas and I approached the stone bridge that led out of Invarstead, towards a snaking mountain path that would lead us up to the Greybeards. Stepping onto a different bridge in Riverwood with Hadvar had changed the course of my life. Crossing this bridge now before me would change it again.

Because when I crossed this bridge, my commitment to my Dragonborn duties would be _real_. I felt a little stupid for thinking it, because I had left Hadvar and his family, already determined to do what was right. But travelling towards High Hrothgar with the best intentions, and actually _treading_ the seven-thousand steps, were two very different matters.

"Second thoughts?" Farkas asked in his low tones.

I blinked, glancing toward him, and realised that I had come to a halt. One more step, and my boot would meet not packed earth and gravel, but the solid stonework of the bridge that led toward a fate I could barely fathom.

 _Don't fathom it,_ I internally encouraged. _Remember your vow. Protect those you love, and think of nothing more._

"No," resolutely, because I would feign resolution even if I was wracked with uncertainty, I shook my head in answer to Farkas' question. "Merely...saying good bye," I took a deep breath.

 _I don't like good byes._

My heart twisted and I blinked back tears as my mind, my _heart_ flew to Riverwood; yearning to be there by Hadvar's side instead of here. I wanted to _help_ him and his family through their grief, but ached at the possibility that my presence might have made coping with Alvor's loss more difficult for Sigrid and Dorthe.

"This isn't good bye," there was a crunch as Farkas' boot pushed off the gravel, and then a more solid thud as he stepped onto the stone bridge before me. "C'mon. One step at a time, sister," he murmured kindly. "I'm with you, all the way."

Nodding shallowly, I took a fortifying breath and stepped onto the bridge to join my shield-brother, and face my destiny.


	47. A New Type of Song

_Chapter 47: A New Type of Song_

The ethereal ice wraith slithered through the air as though it were water and the powerful, snow-choked gale was nothing but an ocean current.

Farkas swung his swords down, impacting the creature before it could wriggle any further. Skyforge steel clanged against – whatever the odd thing was made out of – ice and magic, I supposed – and the resultant tone echoed between the walls of rock and lines of trees either side of us; a high-pitched, bell-like sound, joined an instant later by a loud, disgruntled screech from the wraith.

My bow was raised – my arrow was trained – but as with all other ice wraiths we had faced, I had only been able to loose a single shot, alerting it to our presence, before it had seen us and the 'proper' battle had commenced.

A shattering noise joined the cacophony – one I was now familiar with – and I lowered my weapon. It was the sound that rent the air when the ice-wraith died; Farkas had finished it by himself.

The ice wraith coalesced into a puddle of unnatural blueness, marring the path. I slackened my stance, but remained watchful of Farkas for both signs of injury, and instruction. My shield-brother grunted in annoyance as he shoved his dual swords back into the sheaths resting on his hips, then stared down at its remains with narrowed eyes and a cocked head. I could see that he wanted to kick at the glowing residue, but was unwilling to make contact with the magical ooze.

"You okay?" he called over his shoulder.

Nodding hastily, I jogged toward him as I shouldered my bow. He knew I was okay; the wraith hadn't come near me. "Are you?"

"Mm," Farkas hummed, twisting his arm to inspect a slash of white on the panel covering his bicep. "Bastard tried to take a _bite_ out of me."

"Oh," I slowed to a stop, uncertain of how to help him – or if he even needed any help. "Um. Will it buff out?"

Farkas nodded as he lowered his arm and rolled his shoulders and neck a little. His eyes returned to the ascending path with its age-worn steps poking here and there through the snow. "Yeah. Don't worry, this armour's seen worse," he gave me a sideways smirk. "C'mon, sister. I think there's another one of those prayer stone things ahead."

Sighing and turning with him, I glanced ahead for myself. "I not sure they are _prayer_ stones, not exactly," I fell into step beside him as we trod the rocky, snow-lined path. "They read more like a...poem, I suppose. History and memories, but with...flair. Added drama. You know?" I glanced sideways, to gauge my companion's response at my frankly scattered interpretation.

Farkas half-shrugged again. "Those pilgrims back at the fourth one seemed to be praying to it. Maybe they mean different things to different people?"

I smiled as I observed his craggy features and, not for the first time, thanked the Divines that he had come after me. Not only was Farkas' presence relaxing, but I had acknowledged after he had taken down the first ice-wraith we had encountered that, had I climbed the path on my own, I would have probably died before I reached the second of the etched stones. I was no match for adversaries that required close range.

Farkas stopped before the latest stone then leaned down toward it, squinting as he read.

"It's number nine," he announced, then continued in a dispassionate monotone. " _For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar._ "

I stilled; my eyes widened as Farkas read the final line.

" _They blessed and named him Dovahkiin._ "

Then he rose and turned to me with a relaxed, almost teasing smile. "Huh. No wonder our wolves chose you over Hircine. Why follow a Daedric Prince when you can serve one of the Divines?"

I dimly wondered if, by the etchings on this single stone, he had connected the same dots as Farengar and Delphine? But I could not dwell on his jest; truly, my mind was too focussed on the name he had spoken to worry about deductions he might have made.

 _Tiber Septim_. For all the speculation on my lineage, I hadn't considered _Him_. If my grandfather and father and Giselle and I _were_ descendant from the Septims, that would make the man who had eventually become _Talos_ one of our _ancestors_. A Divine whose worship was _outlawed_ by the Empire, at the demand of the Dominion itself. In a surge of panic, my mind flew to my sister's predicament. If the Aldmeri Dominion found out _anything_ from Giselle, even enough to spark the notion of a connection to the Septims...well. They would hunt me down next. And worse still – if I did not face them? If I ran and hid, they would hunt down those I loved in their efforts to find and silence me.

A part of me wanted to bolt back down the Throat of the World and find Giselle – to free her and hide her, before she could talk – but then, where would I even begin to look for her? Perhaps she had already talked? Perhaps the Dominion were storming into Whiterun and Riverwood at this moment, demanding that Lydia and Hadvar and Sigrid give up my position to them.

 _None of this has happened,_ I pushed through my panic with a swift calmness that bore a hint of Lydia's logic. The Dominion were interested in Giselle for the same reason that the Imperial Legion had been; because she had information on Stormcloak. Nothing more.

Aware that there was no hiding my frantic heart beat from Farkas, I shot him a furrowed look and attempted to shake it off with candour as I finally replied to him. "I'm not a _God_ , Farkas."

"Neither was He, when they called Him up here," he waved toward the etching he had read from as he crunched his way across the snow.

Shuddering unwittingly, I turned my eyes to the path. "That was a long time ago. Tamriel had different...needs, back then," I murmured.

"Suppose so," he chuckled beside me.

Gratefully he left it at that. Silence fell between us for a time as we climbed the ever-ascending steps that would lead me to my training. Training that, as it happened, Tiber Septim had undertaken in his youth, too.

Soon the snow was thick and fresh on the pass, completely obscuring the stones that defined it and I understood that we would come upon no more pilgrims. It was a simple enough matter to continue on, as there were larger rocks and trees either side of the obscured staircase, like a frozen honour guard lining the way to the top.

 _You are Celeste Passero,_ I reminded myself with a fluttery, pleading determination. _You are not the sum of ancestors who you never knew. You are not a warrior, or a lost Empress, or a...a God._

"You want to talk about it?" Farkas murmured uncertainly.

"Hmm?" I glanced to him quickly.

His eyes were still on the path; his boots squeaking through the snow in an uneven rhythm as though he was staggering, though he did not look or seem weary at all. "Talos. Dragonborn. All that..." his silvery gazed flickered to me finally, " _worrying_ that you're doing."

I looked ahead and up to the clear, pale blue sky, streaked by high thin clouds and marked briefly by fluffy, speedy low ones. "Farkas," I sighed in exasperation.

"Yeah I know, I'm not Vilkas," he replied wittingly. "I won't be any use working the kinks out of your problems. But I'm really good at listening," there was a subtle hint of amusement to his tone.

"Don't say things like that," I shook my head to the heavens. "You are many things that your brother is not. In truth..." I faltered, rolling my eyes at myself. "I just...don't know what to think. And I don't know where to begin."

"Yet. You'll figure it out."

"Or die trying," I huffed.

"Not on my watch, sister."

I laughed quietly, lowering my eyes to our feet. For a beat, there was only the eerie serenity of the high mountains, the whistle of the icy winds, and the crunch of our boots through the thin crust over the fresh snow. The trees thinned out, and I caught snatches of breathtaking views of Skyrim, far below. Pale and purpled mountains, smudged by nothing but the sheer distance they were from us, stretching out to the grey-blue smear that met the horizon, that I assumed was the Sea of Ghosts.

Every vista was beautiful, but there was an undeniably surreal quality to all unfolded before us. The world beyond this mountain was but a painting, or a mirage, or perhaps one person's memory of a Skyrim they had once dreamed of. It was no wonder that the Greybeards were said to be disconnected from all that occurred below them. From here, there were no wars, no borders, not even any other people. There was nothing but the endless, flawless expanses of plains, mountains, seas and sky.

I halted and really _looked_ at the scene to the west, trying in earnest to make out the lines of Solitude. There were people there – lots of people. I had grown up there. It was _real_.

Melancholy coalesced over me as the ice in the breeze prickled against my exposed cheeks and chin. I wasn't alone, but in looking for my former-home, and knowing within the depths of my heart that _former_ was the correct descriptor, I felt so incredibly _lonely_.

"Are you afraid?" I asked Farkas in a murmur, suddenly desperate to hear another voice.

Farkas chuckled softly. "Sort of."

"You are?" I turned to him in surprise; I had expected him to say no. The idea that brave _Farkas_ might be worried or scared or anything but resolved about the task ahead chilled me more than the elements did. "What is it that you fear?"

His silvery eyes were also on the expansive view beneath us. "The usual," he droned.

I waited for more, my eyes trained on him in curious concern.

After a moment, he glanced sideways to regard me suspiciously, though the rest of him remained stationary. "What?"

"I don't get it," I returned at once. "What's the usual?"

With a huff, he cast a final look at the scenery, and motioned blithely for us to proceed. Once we were on the path, he replied. "That something will happen and I'll...lose control. Lose myself, but forever."

 _Oh._ Farkas _didn't_ fear the task ahead. Of course he didn't; the Companion had faced many unknown trials and triumphed unscathed, time and time again.

"I keep telling myself that while you're here, it won't happen," he added; his eyes fixed on our destination, or perhaps some point even beyond that. "Then I worry about what might happen to Vilkas, while we're both away."

His fears laid plain were unable to assuage my anxiety; worse, it twisted my stomach into tighter knots. It was a fear that I could have removed for them.

"I _did_ offer to take you _both_ to Ysgramor's tomb," I hazarded delicately.

Farkas shook his head and flashed me a half-smile. "Why? So long as you're around, we don't need curing. It's like that book that Kodlak found, when he first started looking for a way to free us."

I stopped walking to regard him with my brows crossed. "I remember. I mean, Vilkas told me about it."

"Right," Farkas slowed down; turned back to me. "Remember what happened when the Hunt was removed?"

The wolf in the story was calmed, and the curse was seen for its gifts. I remembered all too well, for Vilkas had told me the details before he had related their own less successful attempts to gain control over their beasts.

I slammed my eyes shut as I reigned back a curse. I _had_ to focus on the positives of what Farkas was – and wasn't – saying. My brothers had attained a level of peace that they could live with. _Good_. They were thankful for the gifts that their inner wolves leant them; their heightened senses, which had been so vital to so many of our endeavours. I had even _begged_ Vilkas to use those gifts to keep Hadvar safe on the road to Solitude, and of course he had done it.

"Okay," I mumbled, a little ashamed to note that my voice trembled. I cleared my throat before I added hastily. "It is your choice to remain as you are," I conceded. I was not Farkas' mother to lecture him.

"So long as it's useful to us," Farkas added.

I winced and made myself open my eyes in an effort to mask it. When they had returned from freeing Kodlak, Aela had been furious with me for _enrapturing_ them. Vilkas had told me himself that while he sat at the base of the statue of Ysgramor, unable to join the others within, he had questioned whether the beast had control over him any longer, or if my presence had loaned him the serenity to use the wolf as he needed for its gifts.

 _They are still werewolves because they want to use their heightened senses to help me._

Regardless of their evident _solace_ , I felt ill. I couldn't help but feel they were playing a dangerous game with a Daedric Prince. Or that perhaps I was, despite never consciously doing anything to encourage this bond we had somehow forged. That somehow, Hircine might make us all pay for our use of gifts he had bestowed upon them for _his_ glory.

"You gotta stop all this worrying, Celeste," Farkas' large hand landed on my shoulder; gently, but still I startled, for I hadn't realised that he'd come back to me. "This is our choice, just like you said."

I glanced up with wide eyes, staring at the large man who had, quite ridiculously, sworn fealty to me, as though I _was_ a Septim of legend.

He smiled down at me; a casual reassurance. His smile managed to do what my thoughts never could; it grounded me. I clawed my thoughts back from the magnitude of impossibilities and remembered who and where we were, at that moment.

"Thank you," I told him in sincerity, offering a wary smile in return. The act of smiling released a bubble of anxiety within me, and I almost laughed when I added, "But – promise you will tell me, the moment you want to go to Ysgramor's tomb, okay?"

Farkas' smile widened and he released me, tilting his head a little. "Probably the next time you run off with Hadvar to get married. I doubt we'll see much of you after that. Were you going to tell us you were going to Riften with him?"

Again I winced. "We had planned to actually, on our way out of Whiterun. But...the letter came from Lydia, telling us of what had happened in Riverwood, and to Alvor, and put an end to...everything, really."

"Oh, right, yeah," he murmured bashfully. "Um, sorry."

"Yeah. So am I."

There was nothing more to say. Farkas clearly felt bad for reminding me of what had been lost, and I couldn't help but feel guilty for dallying with Hadvar in my rooms before I had checked in to see that the Companions had survived the battle for Whiterun unscathed. I pushed _this_ guilt from my mind with a frustrated shove; there was simply no more room within me for any more, and I was _determined_ to never regret what Hadvar and I had shared that day.

As we continued to ascend the seven-thousand steps, I knew that the tense silence that hung over us was of my own making. Farkas relaxed over time – or at least, what passed as relaxed for the huge Nord – his movements and manner grew casual, but his eyes darted to anything that moved, or might be about to move. I knew that he would not dwell on our conversation; perhaps not even think on what we had discussed again, unless I brought it forward.

No matter how I resolved to take my lessons from Farkas – to move on with my eyes and mind on the Greybeards and whatever lay beyond them – it was difficult to ignore the deep-seated, hollow feeling within my chest. I understood then, with some detachment, that I was not conquering the emptiness within me; merely laying a thin blanket of warmth over it for periods of time that was tugged at relentlessly by my thoughts and memories. I wasn't blaming myself for _everything_ that had passed – I was determined to overcome that by throwing myself into my destiny – but even the sight of my boots reminded me of Alvor, and of how swiftly those we loved could be snatched away, as though their lives were as insubstantial as individual snowflakes.

I made myself look up and focus on the pale horizon far below us, but my mind could not so easily be dragged from my grief. Had he ascended to Sovngarde, I wondered in bittersweet hope? He was no warrior, but there was no questioning the bravery and honour of his spirit. Alvor had died a warrior's death, defending his family from a dragon.

Would he _want_ to ascend to Sovngarde?

 _He would not wish to be buried at all!_

Like an ice-wraith within, Giselle's barbed outburst to the priest regarding our father's burial snaked to the front of my thoughts, throttling and dispelling the inkling of warmth I had felt when I had imagined Alvor being welcomed into the Hall of Valour.

Blinking back tears I hadn't realised had risen, I glanced toward the path we were treading again, desperate for a distraction. Thinking about Giselle was out of the question; I did not want to risk descending, yet again, into morbid speculation about my sister's fate.

Farkas made a small _hmph_ sound to my right. On the exhale, I caught the fog his breath made in the corner of my eye, but I didn't turn to look at him. Knowing that he was sensing all that I felt didn't disturb me this time, possibly because I knew that at least _he_ wasn't judging me. And it made me feel less alone. The gratitude that swept through me for his presence earned me a chuckle from my shield-brother, and before I had caught up to what I was feeling, Farkas threw his arm over my shoulder.

And before I had even startled from the unexpected added weight, he started _singing_.

" _Have you seen my sword, sword? My new diamond sword, sword?_ "

The remnants of tension and anxiety scattered at his low, largely tuneless rendition of the absurd song, and I was powerless to suppress my laughter any longer.

" _I am now the lord, lord, of my diamond sword, sword!_ " he bellowed, waving his hand to the path as though conducting the breeze that sent the freshest snowfall whirling around us.

" _Gods_ , Farkas!" I burst out, slowing to jab him in the ribs – well, to jab at his armour. I doubted he even felt it. "Of all the songs to sing on this solemn and ancient path!" I chided, but it was in jest. Vilkas must have told him about the song. Farkas grinned as I added; "The other pilgrims would be within their rights to start a riot."

"Eh, bring 'em on," he cut in, waving his hand as he lowered his arm back to his side. "It was worth it, to make you laugh."

This brought on another laugh, though it was largely incredulous as I shook my head at Farkas in disbelief. "I could not have done this without you, today. Perhaps ever," I admitted, with a considering widening of my eyes and a weighty exhale.

Farkas flicked me a half-smile as he continued to tread his uneven steps through the snow. "Nah, you'd have-"

And he stilled, holding out an arm for me to do the same as his eyes darted back to the trail.

I caught myself before I ran into him and immediately drew my bow off my shoulder. I scanned our surrounds – peered in the direction Farkas was staring intently in – and saw...nothing.

Farkas lowered his arm as I drew an arrow. "Ugh. Troll ahead," he murmured in disgust. "Get behind the trees," he waved toward the side of the path, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Don't want it smelling you."

"Farkas, _no_ ," I hissed, lifting my bow and aiming in the general direction he was looking. It would be the work of a moment to properly aim, once it showed itself. "We do this together."

Again, he grunted in disgust. "Too late anyway," he hushed, unsheathing his swords as he hurtled forward. "If I can't take it, climb a tree and fill it with arrows," he growled.

I flickered him a brief glance as my stomach clenched with nerves at the sight of his retreating form. Farkas had taken down trolls before, right?

I inhaled a sharp breath when I saw that the lumbering troll was a lot closer than I had realised it was, but the mottling on its skin and fur had camouflaged it. Now that I had seen it – though it was some distance from me – there was no mistaking the swift approach of the large frost troll, and it was silently headed directly for Farkas.

I knew that I wouldn't be of much use in this fight, so I wasted no more time. I took aim at the indistinct form loping across rocks and snow and – praying that I was actually within range – fired.

My arrow whirred through the air, glancing off the creature's arm. It was enough of a sting to break its focus on my shield-brother, which in turn was enough time for Farkas to land his first crucial blow on the frost troll.

It was strangely hypnotic, watching him fight. I had always expected strong Nord warriors to roar inarticulate, throaty battle-cries as they charged toward their foes, but neither Farkas nor his twin appeared to work in that way. Perhaps it had something to do with their curse; perhaps it was why they were still alive.

I readied another arrow so that if an opening presented itself, I could fire, but a part of me knew the moment would never come. I would never risk firing on my shield-brother. So while I remained still with a new arrow trained, I watched, envying Farkas' ease with his blades. The way he moved was almost like a dance.

After minutes of evading the troll's furious swipes and ignoring its livid snarls and screams, the worst occurred. Farkas' foot slipped – on what I could only guess – perhaps an icy rock. He seemed to fly up into the air before he toppled, and crashed hard onto his back.

The troll fell onto him immediately; its heavily-muscled arms flinging about wildly.

"No!" I screamed, surging forward. I could hear Farkas' cries of rage – and of pain – and my cry was not enough to drawn the troll's attention away from its mission for a single second. It was so focussed on Farkas that it didn't notice my approach until I drove the arrow that I had been holding into the coil of muscle nearest to me; its backside.

With an earth-shattering roar that toppled the snow from the nearest rocks, the troll turned; its three beady eyes honing in on me as its teeth and claws dripped with red blood.

 _Farkas' blood._

" _FUS_!" I roared right back at it. I was close enough to the beast that my Shout hit it instantly, sending it flying away from us. Its mottled body tumbled across the snow covering the path, digging gouges out of the pristine whiteness as it rolled, then whammed into a rock on the far side.

The molten fury coursing through my veins took control of my every move; my eyes narrowed on the frost troll. I squared it with a deadly challenge, daring it to rise and come for me and mine again. Positioned before Farkas, and between it and him, the troll would have no choice but to face me first.

Farkas moaned something, but I didn't hear his words, only sound. Beyond the sound I could hear, _feel_ the pain that he felt, _smell_ the deadly wounds the troll had inflicted upon him. Instead of twisting the frightened child's stomach into knots this time, his fear served to fuel the bright fire within me.

As the frost troll righted itself I raised my bow with an arrow at the ready. " _Daar gein los dii!_ " I yelled across the space between us. " _Kriist tum uv dir!_ "

The troll _hesitated_. It actually paused, to sniff the air, and a frantic voice within me, the _frightened child_ who had stepped back so I could do what had to be done told me to _run_ while I had the chance.

I palmed her pleas aside and stood my ground. I had warned the troll; _This one is mine; stand down or die_ ; and it had seemed to hear me. Perhaps it had understood me. Perhaps it would leave.

Or perhaps goats would sprout wings and start flying.

The troll's break in concentration was at an end; it launched itself at me, bounding across the snowy expanse with frothy blood foaming around its snarling maw. Gritting my teeth I stepped back, widening my stance as I shuffled around Farkas' legs. The frost troll leapt into the air and drew back a meaty arm that was possibly wider than my entire body, and I fired.

My arrow struck true, piercing one of its hideously beady eyes, which stalled the beast's momentum. " _FUS!_ " I uttered again, before it had even hit the ground. I watched in sickening satisfaction as my Shout sent the troll toppling away from us once more. This time, it flew between two of the large boulders that lined the side of the path and disappeared from view, over the cliff.

I didn't see it fall, but its _smell_ left the clearing, and the sound of its receding cry of rage told me that it was gone and would not be back. Nothing could survive that fall.

My distress for Farkas grappled for control, and I let it take the lead. Wasting no more time, I threw aside my bow and turned, falling to my knees beside Farkas and shrugging off my backpack.

Farkas was coughing and spluttering flecks of blood that marked his lips and teeth as they wheezed out of him. The crimson drops landed on both his chestplate and the snow beside us. My eyes raked over his form as I grabbed his hand for comfort – and in trembling desperation.

 _Not Farkas._

There were claw marks – deep ones – sliced through the side of his armour and into his flesh. His unarmoured legs were – oh _Gods_ – one of his knee-caps seemed to have been torn off, but it was difficult to tell with all the blood. How was he still conscious?!

"We'll fix this," I fished frantically through my bag with my free hand for one of the little red bottles I had stowed there.

It was the work of a moment to find what I was looking for. Farkas sighted the bottle and his eyes widened; with a vehemence I'd not have thought possible from a man with his injuries, he shook his head.

I fixed him with an imploring look. His eyes met mine, the silvery wolfish sheen catching the high, but weak sunlight and making it suddenly impossible to see anything but whiteness there.

The sight resolved me. "I'm sorry, brother," I whispered, internally cursing myself for making him face his abhorrence. As Kodlak had told him, when I had come across them in his study – potions were not _really_ products of magic. "But – if you want to live, you must take it."

There was no time for him to argue and he was truly in no position to refuse me, yet still he pursed his lips and shook his head in misery.

Letting go of his hand, I clasped the back of his head – curled my fingers into the thick hair there and held him in place. "Farkas, I _need_ you to live. I can't do this without you," I pleaded. "Open your mouth, _now_."

His breaths shuddered and he winced, tilting his eyes up to regard the skies in what seemed to be a final, desperate plea, perhaps to Kynareth Herself. When his quaking lips parted, I tipped the viscous black liquid down his throat.

Gratefully, the effects were almost immediate, even if Farkas squeezed his eyes shut and coughed dryly after he had swallowed. I sobbed in relief as the wounds on his torso and legs stopped bleeding, and warm tears flew from my eyes as I grasped another potion and uncorked it with my teeth.

Three healing potions later, his side was pinked and his legs were at least no longer bleeding. Skin began to form and knit together, stretching over the gouges; his own body's ability to heal sped up by the potion.

When I reached up to tip a fourth potion down his throat, his hand caught mine. "I'm all right," he grumbled.

I lowered my hand, not believing him, but I had to accede to his wishes. Sitting back on my feet, my hands fell into my lap and I simply watched him as he slowly, gingerly propped himself up on his elbows, cringing all the while.

"You're not all right," I spluttered, wiping my cheeks free of tears hastily, but only more fell. "Won't you drink another-?"

"Trust me okay?" he groaned as he attempted to push himself up into a sitting position. "Beast blood runs hotter than human. It'll help with..." his eyes landed on his swiftly-healing, blood-soaked legs, and he grimaced distastefully.

I flung my arms around his neck before I realised I had moved; the empty potion bottles I had fed him clinked against one another as they toppled out of my lap. "Don't _ever_ do that again," I commanded around another sob.

He opted for silence by way of reply, and his arm gingerly rose to pat my back. The gesture was so tentative and uncertain that, incredulously, it forced a shaky laugh out of me.

I withdrew, sitting back on my heels as I shoved him in the shoulder accusingly. "Why didn't you transform?" I demanded.

Farkas gave up trying to sit, and leaned back on his elbows, frowning as he shrugged a little, seemingly unfazed by my exasperation. "I dunno," he owned.

" _Farkas_!"

"I don't," his eyes met mine briefly; his brows furrowed slightly. "Turning...didn't cross my mind," he looked away. "Huh," he huffed, to himself it seemed. "Who'd've thought?" he added softly.

I bit my bottom lip so I wouldn't snap at him again – he didn't deserve it but _by the Gods_ he had frightened me. My heart was thumping so wildly in my chest that I wondered how every beast on the mountaintop hadn't heard it and been drawn to us, and my veins and skin thrummed and rippled with too much adrenaline. _What_ _ **had**_ _crossed his mind_ , I wondered furiously?

We remained sitting in the snow for a while, to give him some time to recover. Farkas' breaths evened out and my irrational anger slowly abated, though I had half a notion to dismiss him and demand that he return to Jorrvaskr at once.

 _We're giving Farkas orders now, are we?_

Grimacing at myself, I collected the empty potion bottles and tossed them into my pack as I rose. _If it will save his life, yes._

It was strange to acknowledge that if I told him to leave, he actually might – not out of fear but honour, or duty, as it was. In part, what stopped me from telling him to go home immediately was knowing that he would need to descend the Throat of the World by himself, in this weakened state, and that it might be a journey he would not survive, for all his bravado and beast blood. We were so close to the Greybeards monastery that the only sensible course of action was to push on so that he could fully recover indoors.

"Can you stand?" I asked him weakly.

Pushing up onto his hands, his eyes fell to his legs again. "Another minute," he grunted, then turned his gaze up, to squint at me. "Thanks for saving me."

"Don't mention it," I shuddered.

The corner of his lip tilted into a smirk, and he nodded once, lowering his eyes in a way that made me distinctly uncomfortable.

"As you wish, sister."

Turning away from him with a huff, I hid my outward unease by retrieving my bow.

Before I turned back to him, I heard him shifting subtly, and caught a whisper of steel – the sound of him drawing one of his swords.

"They're coming," he growled.

 _Thalmor_ was the first thought that entered my head. While I bolted back to his side, I hushed in a frustrated rush, "What is it _now_?"

"They must have heard your Shout," was his grumbled reply.

Slowing my step and furrowing my brow, I turned, letting my eyes rove the path beyond. "It's probably a pilgrim."

"No," Farkas hissed with some certainty. "These ones heard you, and they're coming for you."

" _Who's_ coming for me?" I asked, though given that Farkas wasn't acting as he had when the Thalmor _had_ pursued me, I had a feeling that I already knew.

Farkas didn't bother replying because at that moment four figures drifted into view through the mists of snow being washed across the path's surface.

Their cloaks were of an ancient design that I had only seen in storybooks; split down the middle and clasped in the centre, over their hearts. The robes were as colourless as the world before dawn; their only adornments a scattering of edging that appeared to be made of scales. Underneath their namesake cloaks, the forms were heavily layered in fur and wool alike. Dark tufts poked out from neck lines and jutted out encircling wrists. Beneath raised hoods, I caught wiry whiskers and aged skin. The serenity their approach emanated, or perhaps simply the knowledge that I needed their help if Farkas was to survive the night, is all that kept me from turning and fleeing.

I stood taller – I couldn't help it – but when I opened my mouth to hail them formally, no words emerged. Taking a deep breath that I prayed would loan me both control and courage, I slung my bow back over my shoulder and turned properly toward them, placing myself between the approaching men and Farkas.

The Greybeard in the lead lowered his hood, and in reply, I lowered my eyes in respect and fear of this audience – this meeting that I had been avoiding for months.

"Ah. We have frightened you," were the first low, gravelly words that the leader said.

The arcadian voice was as tranquil as the ghost-like approach had been, rich for the wisdom suffused within, but scratchy, as though barely used. The words, as much as his tone, encouraged me to lift my eyes and meet him. Within the old man's long face I found kindness, endurance and knowledge. His eyes were as colourless as his robes, but with a more ambient brightness to them, like the charged sky before a snow storm descended.

"I'm not afraid," I croaked, then cleared my throat and licked my lips to try again. Behind me, I heard Farkas _hmph_ , and I stopped myself just in time from turning and kicking him.

 _Don't_ _ **lie**_ _to them with the first breath you take!_

"Well," I tried for a small, apologetic smile. "All right. I suppose I am a little afraid."

Absurdly nervous, I pushed myself into action and took a step toward the man. Unsure of how I should be greeting a Greybeard, I haltingly lowered myself to one knee, then dipped my head again. "I am Celeste Passero. I am answering your call."

When I lifted my gaze, I noticed that the smile I had given was being easily returned. "We know who you are," he replied kindly, and reached his hand out toward me. "I am Master Arngeir, speaker for the Greybeards."

My mind reeled as I stared at his outstretched hand. What was expected of me? Did this Arngeir – my new _Master_ , I told myself with a jolt – wish to shake mine, as though our acquaintance were a business transaction? Was it a symbolic gesture of the Master accepting a new student? Did I have to swear fealty to-?

"May I assist you back to High Hrothgar? You have had a long journey and there is much to discuss."

 _Oh_. I flushed at myself and tried to clamp down on my nerves so that I wouldn't burst into tears of relief. He was just trying to be kind. Nothing was expected of me.

 _Yet._

 _Stop it._

"Thank you Master Arngeir – but I am well," I rose and half-turned, motioning toward Farkas, who was still propped up on his elbows with his legs straight before him. The amused expression as he met my eye caused me to narrow my gaze at him. All of my inner floundering must have been _hysterical_ to him. "But my shield-brother has been injured quite severely, if your offer extends to him."

"Of course it does," Master Angeir lowered his hand and, with a barely perceptible tilt of his head, addressed the three silent Greybeards beyond him. "Take this young man up into the monastery and see that he is made comfortable."

Two of the Greybeards walked towards Farkas at once, both making small, sweeping gestures with their hands that I assumed served as some means of communication of their understanding.

"I can walk, I'm all right," Farkas murmured as they tried to lift the hefty Nord between them. I stepped back to watch, feeling somewhat hazy around the edge of my vision. Farkas would be okay. But...was this _really happening?_

After some shuffling from the Greybeards and more grumbling from my shield-brother, Farkas allowed himself to be supported by the two sturdy older men, and together the three started to make their way up the mountain.

I was unable to keep from smiling at the sight; mostly out of relief, if I was honest. Yes, this was real. We _had_ made it. "Thank you," I murmured my gratitude to the Greybeard by my side. "It will be good to be indoors again," I sighed.

I had taken a single step after them when Master Arngeir spoke.

" _Aan tiid, Dovahkiin?_ "

A chill rippled through me as his question translated in the recesses of my mind in a whisper; _a moment, Dragonborn?_

Turning toward him, I tried to relax my features as I regarded his searching expression. A moment ago, he had been offering to lead me back there himself. "Are...we not to go with them to the monastery?"

Arngeir's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled placidly in reply. "In due time. Before we return to High Hrothgar, I thought we could have a chat."

 _This is it,_ I paled, though I had no idea what _it_ actually was. "All right," I whispered, casting an uncertain glance at the Greybeard who had remained with us, who hadn't spoken or barely moved since they had arrived.

"Thank you, Celeste," he shifted, taking a few steps away from me, before he reached the edge of the path. He sat on a low-set rock and met my gaze, motioning for me to join him. "Or would you prefer I call you Miss Passero, or Companion, or Thane of Whiterun? I can call you Lady Dragonborn, if you wish it, too, of course."

"No – please. Just Celeste, Master Arngeir," I fumbled over my words, and hastened to his side. As I dusted the snow off the top of the rock beside him, watching the tiny flecks of white scatter under my deft brushes, I told myself quite sternly to _calm down_. I was going to make a fool of myself if I continued to expect him to say something terrible.

"Celeste it is, then," he replied comfortably as I settled beside him. "Were you attacked on your way to us? It was why you called upon _Fus_ to save your shield-brother, just now, was it not?"

I nodded, relieved that he was content to discuss something other than my future, for now. "Yes. There was a frost troll, and Farkas slipped while fighting it off."

"Really?" Arngeir seemed genuinely confused, and turned his pale grey eyes from me, to regard the very top of the mountain above us. "How curious."

I did my best to mask my splutter of disbelief. _Curious_?

"Forgive me," Arngeir must have seen my response, though his eyes were trained elsewhere. "Perhaps we should begin again," he said quietly, thoughtfully.

Sitting up a little straighter, I took a deep breath. "Perhaps we should. What would you like to know?" I asked directly.

Master Arngeir's eyes drifted back to me; his small smile returned as he replied unassumingly, "I would like to learn ultimate harmony, as do all who follow the Way of the Voice."

Tilting my head a little – was he teasing me, or was he actually this literal? – I rephrased. "What would you like to ask of _me_?"

His smile broadened as he looked away, his eyes settling on the monk who had remained with us. "Today I would ask you, Celeste, if you are willing and able to learn? Einarth?" he summoned.

The silent Greybeard approached. I watched him but answered Arngeir with the obvious; "That is why I have come."

"Good," he sat taller, crossing his arms as he regarded his fellow Greybeard closely. "Master Einarth, would you be so good as to share your knowledge of _Ro_ with Celeste?"

I was glad that I was sitting; I wavered at his casual manner, given what they were offering me. It was the second word that Ulfric had used on the High King! If they could teach me _Ro_ then all that remained to be learned was _Dah_!

Master Einarth made a small hand gesture in front of him, his eyes on Arngeir all the while.

"Yes, but as she carries the Dragon Blood, she is an exception to the rule. _Ro_ , if you please," Arngeir tilted his head toward me. "It means-"

"Balance," I cut in quietly while I stared up at Einarth with widened eyes. "It means _balance_."

"Ah – but of course. Forgive my presumption," Arngeir almost seemed to chuckle.

I continued watching the Greybeard in front of me, whose eyes I couldn't see beneath the confines of his hood. Einarth made another sweeping motion with his hand – this one more arcing than before – and turned his attention down as his fingers splayed and seemed to forcibly hit the breeze. With a whoosh, a single, rumbling word fell from his mouth;

" _Ro!_ "

And as with _Fus_ , the air rippled before us. The snow at Einarth's feet flew away from him in all directions, and I squinted and lifted my arm to cover my face in an effort to avoid the tiny pin-pricks of ice from blinding me.

When the snow had settled, I lowered my arm, and glanced between Arngeir and Einarth hastily. "Was that it?" I asked quietly.

Arngeir smiled patiently at me and motioned toward Einarth again. "Not quite."

When I looked back to Master Einarth, he took a step back, and my eyes widened at what he revealed by his feet. Etched into the stone of the very mountaintop were scratch marks – marks very similar to the ones on the wall that I had stood before at Bleak Falls Barrow, written in a script that Farengar was busy translating back in Dragonsreach.

As with the wall in the Barrow, where I had learned _Fus_ , this script glowed gently; the faintest of blue light, pulsating and rippling, as though alive.

Entranced by the shimmer, I slipped off the rock and stepped toward it. Within three steps, I was on top of it; crouching down to it, revelling in the way the lights danced off the etchings and into my skin. The word _Ro_ bounced between my ears; a glorious, familiar hum, like a beloved song that I had temporarily forgotten. I let the word take hold of me, and behind the warmth, I realised that I was smiling. Unlike the time at the Barrow, learning _Ro_ did not make me pass out; rather, much like the word's meaning, I felt more poised.

When the singing in my mind quietened, I stood and faced Master Einarth, lowering my eyes to him. "Thank you," I managed around my goofy grin.

"Do you doubt her now, brother?" Arngeir questioned boldly, still seated on the rock behind us.

The corner of Master Einarth's mouth lifted, and another series of hand signals were given by way of reply.

"Philistine," Master Arngeir muttered in amusement. "She learns a new word as though it is the most natural act in the world for her," he reasoned.

I glanced between the pair, but the lingering effects of learning _Ro_ steadied and calmed me.

More hand signals followed from Einarth, and Arngeir sighed. "But she was _not_ Dragonborn."

More signals passed back in reply.

"Yes, that tends to be the way with twins."

With a jolt that leeched at my joy, I realised what – _who_ – they were discussing. I glanced up to the sky and sighed in frustration. "My sister presented herself to you for training, _claiming_ to be Dragonborn, didn't she?" I guessed.

Master Arngeir's eyes darted back to me, as though he had only just remembered that I was still there. "Y-yes," he offered haltingly, then seemed to recover all at once. "Giselle was tested. But she was found...wanting."

 _That must have_ _ **thrilled**_ _her._ Unimpressed, I huffed and glanced away as a petty part of me wondered if there would ever be a path that I would tread, that my sister had not walked before me?

"But in you – well," Master Arngeir slid off the rock and walked toward Einarth and I, his hands outstretched and his voice sonorous. "We need not test you further. We heard the power of your Voice before it was requested, when you used it to defend your friend. You were given this gift by the Gods for a reason, Celeste. It is no coincidence that you have been revealed the moment that the dragons returned."

My ire receded in the face of what we were heading towards, and I asked the question that I had longed to have answered since I had learned that I was Dragonborn. "What do I have to do?" I asked.

"I do not know," was his humbled reply.

Defeat pressed against me as I closed my eyes.

"Do not despair so, Celeste. There is much we can teach you," he insisted gently. "It is the honour of the Greybeards to guide you through the mists shrouding your purpose, but only you will discover where that purpose leads. Now, come," he continued obligingly. "It will grow colder, as the afternoon wanes. It is time to be indoors, and we will continue your training in the morning."

I could not dispel the weight of my disappointment as I opened my eyes and nodded, then fell into step by him.

I did not feel that Arngeir had lied to me, so I had to accept what he had said, and acknowledge that I had not wasted my time in answering their call. I needed their training, and their guidance, if I was ever to find my way for myself.

But the Greybeards did not know what I needed to do as Dragonborn. While we walked, I remained silent and listened as Arngeir spoke about their communion with the voice of the sky, about the daughters of Kyne teaching mortals the Way of the Voice, about their founder Jurgen Windcaller, and about the Dragon Blood bestowed by Akatosh. Did any of what he was saying hold the key to unlocking the confusion surrounding my purpose? I didn't think so.

We had not been walking for long before High Hrothgar swam into view through the swirling snow; a looming, largely symmetrical apparition wrought of uniform grey stones, ascending at least five stories and tipped by both frozen icicles and low, thin, swiftly wandering clouds. The stairs leading up to the entrance were wide and shallow, parting into two flights that hugged the foremost central tower, which at its base was not a door, but a large, ornate chest. I couldn't fathom its purpose, and dismissed it as irrelevant as I trailed beside Arngeir. To my right, Einarth took his steps in time with mine, and I cast him a curious glance as I saw his hands sweep and flutter yet again to communicate with Arngeir.

"Can't they speak?" I asked Arngeir suddenly; the first words I had said since we had left the site of the troll attack.

Master Arngeir had been talking about Jurgen Windcaller again, I thought, but at my interruption he hesitated and cast me a sideways glance. "They can but...no. No, it is best for everybody that they do not. A whisper might not kill _you_ , but your friend's hearing might be damaged permanently."

I didn't quite understand, and crossed my brows at Einarth. "What's happened to them?"

Einarth's mouth formed a grimace of distaste – more from talking at him rather than to him, I felt – but of course, he said nothing. He purposefully placed his hands either side of him, bowed his head with some stiffness, then continued for the front door, leaving Arngeir and I behind.

"You trained to be a musician, did you not?" he queried me with a weighty sigh. I wondered how he had come to learn so much about me, given their situation, but at my nod, he continued. "Perhaps you might understand the mechanics of our endurance, then. Pursuit of harmony by Way of the Voice strengthens not only one's internal spirit, but also the physical body – largely, the throat and diaphragm," Arngeir seemed a little uncertain of his explanation, and frowned at himself. "For a dragon, this strength is nature – they are born with it – as are you."

I quailed at the simple certainty he expressed. Was my success at the College – no, further back than that – was my attraction to music in the first place a product of being Dragonborn? Surely not – but still, the merest prospect crushed me anew. Who might I have become, had the Gods not set me on this path?

 _You are the sum of your decisions, your experiences; not a tool of the Fates._

Arngeir noticed but didn't comment on my close-lipped internalising, and I knew that, as with my future, I would have to worry out these kinks in my past for myself.

"For the rest of us," he mused, "through decades of discipline, the muscles and organs and chords stretch, then stiffen, then stretch again – not dissimilar to the tightening you might give the strings of a lute to fine-tune its pitch," he gave me a small, somewhat encouraging smile.

I tried to focus on what he was telling me about the Greybeards, instead of my own plight. "Lute strings snap," I pointed out delicately, glancing before us to the retreating form of Einarth. "They can only be tightened so far. Is that why they cannot speak?"

"Ah. Forgive me; it was not a perfect analogy," Arngeir's vaguely amused voice rumbled warmly by my side. "The truth is quite the opposite; the 'tightening', if you will, makes them stronger. For my brothers, at this time of their lives – the thu'um reigns. When their vocal chords vibrate to make sounds, their words move mountains and shatter stones. Their mastery is of the air and earth, and the price is the loss of modulation. Put simply," Master Arngeir surmised. "They have no 'inside' voice."

This comparison _did_ make me smile idly, though the sliver of amusement drifted away on the next gust of frosty air as I made eye contact with my new Master. "So, they _will_ be able to speak again some day, as you can?"

Arngeir nodded, and it seemed to be the wordless signal for us to recommence our climb. "We are not dragons, but our bodies continually adapt as we continue to learn. My 'strings', if you will, have relaxed, and I have mastered a discipline required to both speak at an acceptable volume to human ears, and summon the tension the thu'um requires."

This was certainly more interesting than the history of Jurgen Windcaller, and served to capture my attentions. "They should try singing," I mused slowly. We had learned about the workings of a song in my first year at the College; I knew that some notes could shake the vocal chords as powerfully as the loudest of shouts, which is why untrained singers often strained their throats and sometimes, even lost their voices entirely. Dean Ateia had used the lesson to impress upon us why it was so important to warm our voices up with scales and other singing exercises.

"But in a way, all they can do _is_ sing, for the time being," Arngeir gave me another one of his patient smiles. "Do not despair for them, Celeste. Remember; they have chosen their own paths," he rumbled, then tilted his head. "I will admit that there was a certain...tranquility, to that time of my life. To not be plagued with the day to day necessity of conversation. And," he lifted his eyebrows in my direction, "while you are amongst us, you too may come to understand the providence of speaking less, so that you can hear what the world is trying to teach you."

It had to be easy for a hermit to accept – no, revel in the loss of his voice. Truthfully, Arngeir had been doing a _lot_ of talking since we had met, so I had to wonder if he believed that the world had nothing left to teach him?

Personally, I could not comprehend losing my voice, for any period of time, without shuddering. I had spent close to a decade honing it, taking the utmost care to not strain or damage it needlessly, with hopes to make a career out of it, some day.

And now – well, even if I was never to graduate and become a qualified Bard, my voice was still important to me. So I merely smiled in return, and let the matter drop. I understood his meaning, even if I didn't wholly agree with him.

Once Arngeir had pushed open one of the tall metal doors flanking High Hrothgar, I stepped out of the biting gales and into the warmth then gazed up and up, taking in the fluttering sconces and uniform brickwork that climbed high enough to be consumed by shadows before I could make out a ceiling. The entryway was not very well lit and mostly blocked by a large central pillar, so it did not surprise me that I couldn't see much directly above us. The flagstones were large and also grey, but unlike the walls were _not_ uniform in size or shape, and the darkened grit between the stones created a pattern of irregular, angled borders beneath our feet.

Stepping around the pillar, Arngeir led the way into a much brighter, more open area. The brightness seemed to be on account of large skylights that allowed the afternoon sun to wash the stonework with shafts of brightness, though braziers were positioned at intervals, adding their own orange glows to the mix.

It was imposing and calming at the same time, I thought; again, much like the Greybeards themselves. Several hallways and staircases led in all directions into dimmer passages, and above us, tattered, ancient yellow banners hung limply in the breezeless interior; too consumed by the shadows to make out anything of distinction sewn onto them.

"Can you take me to Farkas?" I asked Arngeir quietly, for the cavernous central room recommended a lowered volume. I didn't think he would mind being cooped up in a fortress where nobody spoke, but I did feel the need to explain what was going on to Farkas, and I wanted to see that he had been made comfortable by the other Greybeards.

"Of course," Arngeir nodded solemnly. "Your room is this way," he motioned toward the hallway to the east.

I drifted after him, but couldn't help to confirm; "My... _room_?"

Arngeir merely smiled by way of reply.

 _But of course. They have been expecting me for some time, and if I am to live here..._

We passed many bookshelves, choked with books. I dragged my eyes away from the neat rows before I caught sight of any titles; I did not want to be distracted, but I would return later to browse their collection. The occasional bench seat or chair and small table were pushed against the walls, more often at a junction or by one of the many tall, thin windows that lit up the hallways at intervals. Again I noted, with some curiosity, that the majority of their horizontal surfaces were covered in books marked with pieces of notepaper or simply left open.

I was so fixated by the tomes cluttering the space that I failed to pay attention to the path Arngeir was leading me along, and soon we reached the very end of the dimly-lit hallway.

"For the rest of the day, you are given leave to rest," he held the tall, polished steel door open for me but did not enter for himself. "Your training begins at dawn."

"Thank you," I murmured. My eyes flickered over the extents of the room; it did not take long. It was roughly the size of the room we had rented in Ivarstead; a small, perfunctory, rectangular chamber. At the back of the room was a thin window which was either glazed to be almost opaque, or steamed up by the relative warmth of the room as it met the glass that was being constantly cooled from the outside. There were four beds – all of which appeared to be made of stone! Each was pushed against a wall, two either side, and my shield-brother occupied the one nearest to us – his hands behind his head as he gazed at the high, featureless stone ceiling. At the end of each bed was a simple chest of drawers, and on each stood a small, handheld lantern – but only the one at the end of Farkas' bed was lit, fluttering beside a pitcher of something and a wooden cup.

Behind me, I heard the door groan on its heavy hinges as Arngeir started to close it.

I turned around, realising that he _was_ leaving at once. "A moment, please, Master Arngeir?"

He hesitated; his pale eyes glanced back to me. "Is something the matter?"

My cheeks pinked at my sweeping assessment of the space they had set aside for me. It was a dormitory for students – of course the room would be modest. "Um – it's just. What about bathrooms, meals and water, and the like?" I asked hastily.

Arngeir inclined his head a little. "Of course. It will take you some time, I expect, to grow used to our mode of self-sufficiency."

I couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed by this. Farkas turned a little to regard me curiously; his brows crossed. I doubted that Master Arngeir had said it to insinuate that I was used to a more _pampered_ way of life, so I told myself to get over it.

"Meals are taken wherever you like, whenever you like," he smiled patiently between the two of us, and I noticed a bit of a twinkle to his eyes. "There are hearths in both wings – simply follow the hallway back until you come upon one. There is simple fare, and if you require anything specific, I will add it to the list that we leave for Klimmek once a week. Collect any water you need from outside, and melt it over these same fires. As for waste and bathing and laundering, you will find facilities in the room next to yours. It is why we placed you in a dormitory, in fact; so that you might have easy access to these."

"Thank you, Master," I murmured again. That was thoughtful of them. "I will see you at dawn, if not before."

"It is my pleasure, Celeste," Arngeir resumed closing the doors. "I suggest you rest, while you can."

When the door closed behind him, I moved in and sat on the bed opposite Farkas', but I was not tired. Under the blankets there must have been layers of furs, or something soft, for while it was harder than any bed I had ever slept on, it was not as entirely unyielding as stone would have been.

"Are you all right?" I asked Farkas quietly, sliding my pack and bow off my shoulders, then tucking my hands underneath my legs as I glanced up and around the room for a second, longer look. There was more height than depth to it – when I looked up, I felt...small!

Farkas nodded, relaxing back onto his pillow. "My armour needs some patching up. But yeah. I'll live. You okay?" he countered. "You took a while to get here," he muttered.

"I..." my mouth hung open for a moment as I recalled specifically why I had been delayed. "Arngeir...wanted me to learn a new word straight away. Master Einarth taught me the meaning of _Ro_."

"A new Shout?" Farkas shuffled a little, clearly interested and trying to get comfortable it seemed. He ended up rolling onto his side to face me across the gap between our beds. He crossed his arms and added, "Can you breathe fire now?"

A small smile curved my lips and I shook my head. " _Ro_ means _balance_. It makes _Fus –_ which means _force_ , by the way – a little more powerful."

Farkas huffed. "I've seen you use _Fus_. Why does _that_ need to be any more powerful?"

My smile persisted. "There's a third word to the sequence, which makes it even stronger, actually. _Dah_ , which means _push_. Ulfric Stormcloak used the combination of _Fus, Ro_ and _Dah_ to murder the High King," I deflated a little at the reminder. "Maybe they'll teach it to me tomorrow?" I mused idly. "Then I'll have everything I need..." I trailed off.

 _You cannot abandon your Dragonborn duties to execute your revenge against Stormcloak._

Farkas _hmphed_ again. I couldn't fathom what he was picking up from me.

"Need any food?" he started to turn, to rise. "Feel like a bit of a walk."

"Oh – are you sure?" I stood hastily, offering him my arm. "I don't mind figuring this place out and bringing you something back. You _did_ almost die today, after all," I pointed out loftily.

Farkas smirked at me as he rested an arm over my shoulder. "Nah, you had my back. Thanks, again," he added gruffly, jostling me a little under his arm.

My relief at his recovery swelled in my chest, and I turned away from his grateful gaze, trying to make light of it as I cleared my throat and began to muse aloud about the kinds of foods they might keep up here. Sending a frost troll over the edge of a cliff was nothing compared to what Farkas had done for me.

Despite the looming unknowns before us, particularly the disappointing truth – that Arngeir didn't know what being Dragonborn would entail – I felt a sense of peace suffuse me as we traversed the dimly-lit halls to locate our nearest hearth.

If I was truthful, there was some pride to the feeling. I had kept good on my promise, and managed to protect those that I loved. If I could only keep doing that, I wouldn't have to lose anybody else.

* * *

 _A/n: Sorry again for the delay in updates. Work is uncharacteristically busy for the time of year. Here's hoping it eases off soon. I promise I will finish this story, some day, so thank you for sticking with me._


	48. The Final Trial

_Chapter 48: The Final Trial_

" _Wherever you are, whatever you face. I love you. Remember that._ "

His words drifted to me through a fog of waking. My eyes opened and I blinked a few times, still bleary enough around the edges that I wondered whether I had shifted from one dream to another. Hadvar's voice and the warmth he loaned me faded as the haze of sleep cleared, and the ceiling swam into focus. The perpetual chill of Hrothgar brushed my exposed cheeks. My eyes adjusted to the drab darkness swiftly enough, and I searched the line where the bricks were consumed by shadows too distant to penetrate. For a few seconds, my mind remained blissfully clear of thought.

A gale surged over the mountain, battering the outer walls of the monastery with fierce howls of protest against the obstruction. The rattle of the glass in its window frame; an urgent, frantic tapping, seemingly desperate for my attention, brought me back to where I was. With a groan, I rolled over and bundled my blankets around my neck, wishing that I could remember the details of the dream I had been having, for just a _little_ longer.

The words Master Arngeir had spoken to me the previous night drifted back to me instead.

" _Your shield-brother's recovery has been swift. Tomorrow, we will discuss your final trial._ "

These two odd statements were all the elusive old man had said with a pat to my shoulder before he had shuffled off to bed. I had blinked after him dumbly, confused but too weary to phrase a question before he had departed.

Trial? No – _final_ trial? Was my training...somehow nearing its completion? We had been amongst the Greybeards for no more than two weeks. And, of course I was relieved that Farkas was well again but, what did his health have to do with anything?

 _You are wasting time,_ I reminded myself pointedly.

Aching with weariness, I forced myself up, pushing the blankets and furs aside as I eased my feet to the floor. I was wearing two pairs of socks, so the chilled flagstones couldn't shoot ice along my legs – I had learned _that_ horrible lesson on my first morning here.

The cold of Skyrim had never bothered me, for it brought with it a fresh, invigorating air. My mother had often sighed over the conditions outside, being a native of the milder Wayrest, but Giselle and I, while we had certainly _felt_ the cold, had never let it weigh us down. Solitude was chilly and gusty and it was often too cold to snow in the heart of the city, being so densely populated and so close to the sea, but...the Throat of the World took winter to another level. The weather was so extreme that I wondered if Farkas and I had unwittingly crossed through some portal during our climb, and were now existing in a strange, largely colourless alternate realm. _My_ Skyrim had never been _this_ cold.

Though, having travelled so little in my youth, perhaps I did not have a broad enough basis for comparison. For all I knew, the high, glacial mountains above Solitude were the same as here, or worse, if such a thing were possible.

Farkas was lying on his bed with his hands crossed behind his head and his eyes closed; relaxing, for he could never properly sleep while the wolfblood coursed through his veins. I wondered as I regarded him, and not for the first time; how could the beast maintain this constant vigil without a moment's rest? Why, even in these safe quarters, did it feel a need to be on alert?

He glanced toward me when I rose and the corner of his mouth lifted in greeting when I croaked good morning to him.

"Not yet. You can go back to bed," he rumbled quietly; his focus flickered back to the ceiling. "Sun won't rise for another hour."

"Mm-mm," I shook my head floppily, palming my eyes as I yawned.

Farkas said nothing while I rose and threw my coat over the layers I had slept in, but he spoke when I grabbed my satchel and made for the door.

"How hard can a couple of letters be?" he asked. "You're losing too much sleep writing them," he sounded grumpier at this last.

I rested my hand on the door arch and blinked at him. My shield-brother hadn't moved, but he had craned his head back to watch me go. "You should write to him too, you know," I countered. "I know that you worry about him, and I am sure your brother would not object to hearing from both of us."

Farkas grunted as he turned back to stare at the ceiling. We _both_ knew that he was not the letter-writing type. "Just, promise me you won't tell him about the troll."

I mumbled my assent. I had already decided that Vilkas didn't need to know, but I wagered that Farkas didn't want him to know for different reasons to me. "Rest well, brother. I'll be at the bench seat-"

"Yeah yeah," he waved his hand toward the door, his eyes already closed again. "Go, enjoy your quiet time, while it lasts," he added, less rude than before.

 _I will._ I managed a brief smile at him, even though he could not see it, and then stepped into the hallway, clicking the metal door closed quietly behind me.

As I turned to face the long, dim hallway, I sucked in a breath of cool air and closed my eyes, practising my centring technique from my days at the College, which had served me so well since, in such a variety of situations.

 _Alone_ , I told myself calmly. The notion simultaneously thrilled and terrified me.

My socked feet made no sound on the large flagstones as I made for the bench seat I had claimed on the morning I had decided to write to those we had left behind. Had Farkas not been able to sense – or smell – my feelings, he might have insisted on coming with me, for he was close by at almost all other times. Gratefully, while blunt on many matters, my shield-brother understood that this single hour before dawn was the only hour that I could call my own, in what had become a rigorous regime from the first day I had awakened in our dormitory. This hour was a time, and a solitude, that I had come to treasure during the fortnight we had dwelt at High Hrothgar.

When I had left Hadvar in Riverwood those weeks ago, I had thought I would lose who I was to the Greybeard's tutelage. But now that I was here and wholly focussed on learning what a Dragonborn should be capable of, I did not feel so different from who I had been two weeks prior. As with any education, the Greybeards were merely expanding my skill set and adding to my knowledge, not discarding parts of me to fit their information in.

And so while I could have certainly used the extra sleep, once I realised that I _wasn't_ a changed woman; that I was still entirely Celeste, and that the Greybeards weren't trying to mould me into somebody else, I found that I _craved_ this single hour that I could call my own.

My bench seat flickered into view. The hearth on the far side had burned down to a couple of glowing lumps, but it was not unrecoverable. To this end, I threw some peat into the centre, and prodded with the poker to bury them so they would catch alight.

The seat wasn't particularly significant or private, and I wasn't sure why I had grown fond of the spot, but I had. There were six other bench seats just like this one in the monastery; plain grey stone laid with fur, butting up against the wall. This seat, _my_ seat, faced a window that offered a southerly aspect along the path that Farkas and I had ascended. The view was always partially obscured by ice and snow blown onto the window pane, and if the hearth remained warm for any length of time it would steam up, just like any other window in the monastery would.

I approached the frosty glass and grasped the sleeve of my coat in my fingers, rubbing against it in circles to peer into the strangeness of outside. Squinting beyond my reflection, I saw snow being washed over the peaks, reminding me, as it often did, of an ocean swell. The crags and boulders were dark, irregular shapes, silhouetted by a slightly lighter, inky sky and its greyed horizon. In the darkness above twinkled a few bright stars, though they were difficult to see from the window. The final remnants of what looked like a pink aurora, lined in orange and green, rippled in the corner of my view.

My breath fogged the glass and I rubbed at it again to drink in the sight for a moment longer, while I was at liberty to do nothing but observe. I wished to see more of the aurora, but going outside to watch was out of the question; I would die of exposure within minutes at this time of night.

While I could have easily spent my entire hour staring at the heavens lost in pensive thought, I truly did have work to do, so it wasn't long before I returned to the bench seat and opened my satchel. Within it were inks, quills, and parchments; a few covered in writing, but most blank.

I grabbed one of the larger nearby books to use its hard cover as a writing surface, and withdrew my three letters; to Lydia, Vilkas, and Hadvar.

Wearily, I sighed at the latter, unfolding it and staring down at the page.

 _Dearest Hadvar,_ it read.

That was all I had. There were so many things I wanted to tell him – and to ask him. But every time I formed a sentence in my head and moved to commit it to paper, I would falter. It was never adequate. Nothing I could piece together would express how much I missed him, and how sorry I was for what had happened. Furthermore, I wondered if any letter I wrote would even reach him if? Would it be stolen, as all of his letters had been? Surely not if Giselle was behind the theft, for she was in no position to continue paying whoever she had employed to carry out the task.

 _And if Giselle wasn't responsible for stealing your letters?_

Frustrated, I placed Hadvar's letter to one side yet again, and opened the one I had been writing to Vilkas.

It was not quite done – yet. It was eight pages long and growing, and I was determined to finally finish it that morning, so that I could place it and Lydia's in the supplies chest with some coin for Klimmek. He was scheduled to make a drop today, and would take any letters in the chest with him, to forward on. If I missed him this morning, I would have to wait another week to send them.

 _You might deliver them yourself, if you succeed in your final trial and the Greybeards dismiss you._

What had Master Arngeir _meant_? I had learned much in a fortnight but in no way did I feel ready to venture out as the Dragonborn and start...whatever it was that I was meant to be doing. I was still none the wiser. Shuddering, I tried to push the reminder from my mind.

My eyes scanned the page I had been penning the previous morning to distract from the uncertainty I felt over my future.

 _The Greybeards have devised a training schedule that, unsurprisingly, focusses on the Way of the Voice from the time the sun rises until the moment I go to bed. By the light of the day, whichever Master has been assigned as my mentor works with me to hone my thu'um. My abilities are wanting finesse, and Master Arngeir assures me (for the others only speak to me with hand signals that I barely understand) that the more I practise Fus and Ro, the greater control I will gain over my instincts. Knowing how to speak words of power is not enough; as with any song that might have taken me weeks, sometimes months of practise to perfect, the Way of the Voice requires a similar level of dedication to attain the power I should be able to wield as one of the Dragon Blood. Apparently._

I sat back, wondering what to tell him next. The training I had received so far was not as intimidating as I had worried it might be, for I had been focussing on my voice for as long as I could remember. It was _far_ more taxing than anything the Deans at the College had ever required of me, however I didn't feel Vilkas would appreciate me whining about how tired I was over what he would probably consider 'a little hard work'.

Propping the book against my knees and leaning back over the page, I tried to simply keep my momentum going:

 _As well as practising Shouts, there are breathing techniques to learn – ones that will help me to reach my thu'um with greater consciousness, and more swiftly, and others to quiet my mind to all else, so that I might focus wholly on the words when I call upon them. I am finding it difficult to reach this state consciously as my thoughts continually distract me, but Master Arngeir tells me that, as with everything else they are teaching me, mastery will take only persistence and time._

 _Once it grows too cold to remain outdoors, I study from an enormous pile of books that were assigned to me the first morning after I arrived. The Greybeards have an impressive book collection, with titles the likes of which I have never heard of. You would love it – you would lose yourself in their books for months, perhaps even years. Each I have been assigned thus far has been a biography of a past Dragonborn; first Saint Alessia, then Reman Cyrodiil, and now, Tiber Septim._

Again I sat back, glancing over the three names briefly. Their biographies had taught me that they had been three extraordinarily brave people, and their deeds had elevated them to...well, more than legends. They had become leaders, and Gods. But their stories were littered with mythology. I often wondered what was real, and what had been created by those who penned the tale to serve as some lesson to the reader.

 _Ugh_. I could not fathom that some day, someone might write _my_ biography, and that it might be collected amongst theirs. What fabulous lies might be woven throughout it?

 _And how much of it will be true?_

Squirming on the bench seat, I set aside the book, letter and quill, and rose again to check how close dawn was. Wiping the condensation from the window, I saw that the very edge of the horizon was now lined in the brightest pink, which turned pale and then inky blue again almost at once, like two thin lines smudged swiftly across a dark canvas by a wet brush.

 _Half an hour, if that._

Closing my arms around myself and shivering unwittingly, I leaned my forehead against the frosty glass.

" _Come back to bed – stay the night, and then we'll-"_

I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to will Hadvar to me. He had told me that he needed me, and I had _left_ him. And now I longed for him – to hold him, breathe him in, and to never let go. To know that he was safe; to stand beside him while he grieved his uncle's loss. I missed his ready smile; his calm intelligence that always grounded me. _He_ had been the one to make the situations we faced less intimidating, and if only we could be together I knew that we would both be able to move forward with hope. He had thanked me for _seeing_ the man beyond the uniform and list, but he had always seen _me_ ; the woman beyond the accolades. He expected nothing of me; certainly nothing that could be compared to the deeds of the previous Dragonborns. Yet he somehow had the power to make me feel as though I could climb all of the mountains looming before me.

 _His family. His attentions should be on his family._

Of course it was true, but it still pained me to think it. Where was he now? It had been over two weeks since the dragon had attacked Riverwood and torn his family in half. Had he gone back to his post with the Legion after his week of leave had ended – a week that should have been _ours_? What had he and Sigrid arranged for their futures? Would they remain in Riverwood, or move on to somewhere else entirely? And, where might that be?

 _Perhaps he has already written of this, but his letter never reached you._

Gritting my teeth and pushing myself off the glass, for it was too cold to remain pressed against it for long, I returned to the fire and bench seat and sat with a frustrated flounce. I _had_ to finish the letter to Vilkas, and with a sudden blaze of determination, the words came thick and fast.

 _It occurs to me that Hadvar might be in Whiterun at this time, having taken up his post as Praefect and representative of the Legion to Jarl Balgruuf._

 _Should you cross paths – could you give him my regards? Let him know that I am here and well – share anything in this letter that might interest him – and tell him that I long to write but don't, because I fear my letters will be captured by our enemies, yet again, before they reach him._

 _I miss him, more than I can possibly express, and I dearly hope that he and his family are -_

Hesitating, stared at the blank space after the word _are_. I hoped that they were what? Well? Recovering? No word or phrase that came to mind could express the depth of my desires and regrets. What I hoped for most was to turn back time; to go back to the morning Hadvar and I had journeyed to Whiterun; to go with Lydia to Riverwood instead. I would engage the dragon before it had drawn a single breath against those I loved, and I would destroy it.

 _Safe_ , I eventually settled.

 _I dearly hope that he and his family are safe._

It was not enough, but it would have to do. Signing the letter off, I folded it hastily and stuffed it back into my satchel with Lydia's. I needed to get ready for training – no, my _final trial_ , whatever that meant.

Morose with longing and anxiety intertwined, I had a sneaking suspicion that there would be nothing _final_ about it.

–

"Your armour will be warm enough, once we get moving," Farkas advised. "Pack everything else. Or leave it behind. Whatever suits you. We'll be back – eventually."

I stood in the doorway with a hand on the arch for support, staring at my shield-brother in disbelief. Had I not been holding myself up, I might have crumpled into a heap onto the floor.

 _Ustengrav_. We were leaving High Hrothgar to _undertake_ my final trial, and going to a tomb on the other side of the province, south east of _Solitude._ Of all the places in Skyrim! No sooner had Master Borri taught me the Shout _Wuld,_ which meant whirlwind and allowed me to run as swift as the breeze itself, that Master Arngeir had instructed me to journey to the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller and retrieve an artefact – his horn – as my final trial.

Farkas and I had both been unable to conceal our surprise, but asking Master Arngeir for more information had been pointless. It seemed that he knew what was ahead of me in this regard, yet he was reticent to tell me of anything I would face.

–

" _Many a mortal before you has failed on this trial. The recovery of Jurgen Windcaller's horn is paramount to the progression of your training, for it will examine both your mind and heart in a manner which we are unable to do. Traversing its depths may even open your eyes to your destiny. It is not for me to say. It is a sacred path that you must tread. I caution you to proceed with due respect. Only a Dragonborn may succeed, and should your power transform into arrogance, you will never return to us."_

" _Why wait until Farkas was well enough before mentioning this?"_

" _There are many evils before you. Does your aptitude for the dragon tongue give you the ability to face such dangers on your own?"_

" _Of course not – I'm not an idiot."_

" _That is our hope."_

–

 _Hope,_ I echoed dumbly in the recesses of my mind, with my eyes on my shield-brother.

Farkas was hastily stuffing things into his backpack; the clothes and smaller weapons he had brought with him. After the initial surprise he had expressed outside when Arngeir had instructed us to leave, he had grown resolved, but in a twitchy kind of way that made me nervous.

"Have you been to Ustengrav, brother?" I asked. My voice left me in a dispassionate whisper.

Farkas cast me a silvery sideways glance. "Nope. You?"

"No," I huffed. I hadn't really been...anywhere, had I?

"A bit of an adventure for both of us then," he replied easily as he sealed his pack. "We'll stop in Ivarstead for some food, yeah?"

"Hmm," I agreed idly.

"Maybe someone in town will have a horse we can borrow?"

"Mm," I barely heard him.

"Sister?" he rested a hand on my shoulder.

I had thought he was still by his bed. My attention captured, I blinked hastily and glanced up. "Yes, I know. I need to pack," I shrugged him off and hurried into the dormitory.

He _hmphed_ and returned to his bed, only to shoulder his backpack and make for the door.

"I'll be along in a minute," I told him quietly.

"Mm-hmm."

 _Click_.

 _Wait_ – the sound roused me from my sluggish thoughts and I glanced to the door. Had I...offended him? Closing my eyes in defeat, I sank onto my bed for a moment and made an effort to come back to where we were. Of course I had offended him. I was being useless and unhelpful. He was taking control and facing the task ahead, as was required. There was no time, no reason to overthink this path we had been set on – it was simply a job that needed to be done.

I could repair things with Farkas on the road. We would certainly have time enough to talk, even if most of it was me talking and him listening.

While it was easy to _think_ this, it was not easy to action. Something, some uneasiness continued to tug at me, drawing me inward when I should have been focused. I made myself rise and mechanically stuffed my belongings back into my pack.

–

The dulling haze of disbelief I had felt since I had risen persisted, even as the day grew warmer.

Farkas and I descended the seven-thousand steps in relative silence. While I was, for the most part, consumed by my mute confusion, the pass had grown icier as the weak sun did its best (and failed) to melt the snow, and we needed to watch our step, to ensure we didn't slip.

During one of the brief moments we had spoken, I had apologised to Farkas, but my shield-brother had merely cast me a confused glance and grumbled, "For what? You didn't know this was going to happen."

It hadn't been what I had meant. "No, I mean – I was rude to you," I widened my eyes at myself, glancing down to ensure that I placed my feet on the snow, instead of the slippery, exposed rock. "Back in our room. I didn't meant to be."

"You were?" he paused, turning back with a frown and a furrow.

I rolled my eyes at him. "Yes," I wanted to shove him, but he was too far away.

"Huh," was my shield-brother's reply as he turned around and resumed plodding through the snow.

My mind itched as I stared at his back. "I um, shouldn't have been so distracted," I persisted. "I'm sorry."

"You worry too much." Farkas waved his hand.

Still frowning, for he had not responded in a way I had anticipated, I let the matter drop.

By the time we reached Ivarstead it was mid-morning. We stocked up with supplies at the inn, but further enquiries determined that there wasn't likely to be a horse we could hire any closer than the Whiterun stables.

"Might call in at Whiterun to get a couple," Farkas commented with a broad grin as we left the township, heading north along the main road. "That'd cheer you up, wouldn't it?"

My heart leapt in my chest and I choked on the very air I had been breathing. Coughing and fending off Farkas' concern, I realised that this, _this_ was why I was having such a hard time coming to terms with Arngeir's request.

When I had left for High Hrothgar, I had resolved myself to the knowledge that all I loved would be out of reach for years, possibly decades. I had said good bye, possibly forever. I had agreed to being holed up at the Throat of the World. But – barely two weeks into my training – I was to venture down and into the thick of life again. Close and free enough to drift to those I loved; to risk being distracted away from my destiny.

And how many more would die if I gave in to my longings?

 _No_ , I stared down at my shaking hands. _Straight to Ustengrav, then back again. This assignment changes nothing._

I could not deviate from my path, even if it was forming in strange, unexpected ways before my eyes. No matter how close I came to those I loved, I could not, _would_ not go to them.

 _What happened to living each day?_

The words I had sent Hadvar's way made me want to simultaneously laugh and cry for the memory they invoked, and of course, Farkas felt the conflict within me.

This time, he decided to speak up. "Okay," he stopped in his tracks, taking hold of my shoulder and urging me to face him. "What was that?"

Caught amidst my thoughts, I huffed and lifted my hands, glancing up to the skies in desperation. "Farkas, am I to have _no_ privacy-?"

"Guess not," he cut in steadily. "I might have ice for brains, but _this_ ," he poked my shoulder with a thick finger, "is not you," he growled. "Where is my Harbinger?"

"You _don't_ have ice for brains," I glared, rubbing my shoulder childishly. "And – you know where our Harbinger is. He is back in Jorrvaskr."

"Wrong. Don't change the subject."

"You brought it up," I lifted my eyebrows at him.

Farkas grunted in frustration. "I can't argue with you. You will always win," he glanced away, resting his hands on his hips as he observed the way ahead.

"I don't want to fight," I admitted quietly.

"Yes, you do," his silvery gaze drifted back to me. "You're like a caged animal," he nodded toward me. "Blaming yourself for stuff you didn't cause, refusing happiness because you feel you don't deserve it. You're just like Vilkas was, before you came along. And," the corner of his mouth lifted, "I know how to help."

He lowered his hand to hover over the handle of one of his swords. "How's your arm?"

Unconsciously, I took a step back. "Wh-what?" He didn't mean – why would he want to spar _now_?

With a whisper of steel against leather, he drew his blade – his _actual_ blade, that he had used to cut down ice wraiths and bears and _Shor_ knew what else. "Those old men on the mountain top make you deaf as well as soft?" he drawled. "I asked you a question."

"Farkas, put it away," I hissed, glancing both ways along the road. He'd draw a guard to us if he kept this up.

"Make me," he challenged with a smirk as he tossed his sword from one hand to the other; his eyes darkening in part challenge, part _actual_ danger.

With a curse, I realised he wasn't going to stop. I had reminded him of Vilkas, he had said. Perhaps _this_ had been how he had helped his brother through his own rough patches. _But I was not a wolf!_

He swung his sword in a broad arc, and I had just enough time to dart back and duck down to avoid the blow. My hand flew to my hip where my largely untouched shortsword rested.

He _hmphed_ in displeasure. "Thought so. Getting soft."

" _Getting_ soft?!" I huffed as I drew my sword with barely enough time to grasp the handle in both hands to block his follow-up blow. The steel clanged loudly and my arm muscles protested as the jarring sound rang in my ears and shook me from head to toe. Gritting my teeth, I tried to push him back, but it was like trying to move a mountain. I'd _always_ been soft.

"Yes, _getting_ ," Farkas pulled away, shifting his feet to execute a short jab that I had to scoot off the road to avoid. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

I glowered and gripped my sword handle tighter. Before I could reply, he swung at me again, and I ducked and lifted my blade; the edges glancing off one another with a whispering hum.

"I _don't_ feel sorry for _myself_ ," I managed sullenly as I shuffled backwards, my boots forging a path through the roadside leaf-litter as Farkas leapt down to join me.

"Don't believe you," was his monotone reply before he sidestepped and thwacked me on the behind with the flat of his sword.

The shove was enough to topple me, and I landed on my hands and knees, wincing as I drew myself up and turned to face him. "I _don't_ ," I insisted. "I feel sorry for..." I faltered, my eyes flickering over him as I searched for the right words. He grew hazier around the edges as tears obscured my vision.

Farkas had the grace to look taken aback for a second. "Hey – I didn't – don't _cry_ ," he blurted, lowering his sword.

Righting my grip on my own, I clenched my eyes closed in an effort to dispel the agony. Anger bloomed within me in its place; dark and furious, like a thunderstorm. "I destroyed his family, Farkas," my eyes flashed open, and I launched myself forward, swinging my attack.

He blocked swiftly. "You blame yourself for what happened to Alvor?" he asked quietly.

"I thought more about my own needs and wants than anybody else's, _as usual_ ," I grit my teeth as I pushed off him and used the momentum to swing again. "And the cost was..." I couldn't finish my sentence. Instead, I growled out my next attack. Why couldn't I _explain_ myself? I was a _bard_ , for Shor's sake!

Farkas blocked the move idly. "Suppose you blame me for Kodlak's death, then," he mumbled.

That was unfair, and I faltered; chilled at the reminder. _No. But –_

Narrowing my eyes at him, because suddenly I could see what he was doing by bringing Kodlak up, I shook my head and stepped back, positioning my feet to correct my balance. "That's different," I whispered.

"How?" he fired, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he righted his stance. His fingers flexed around his sword, tightening their grip. "Go on. I'm the dumb one. Explain it to me," his eyes flashed amber.

I puffed bleakly in the face of his sudden intensity; my own subdued by the uncharacteristic fury from my ordinarily steady shield-brother. My temple itched, and I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow with the back of my hands; my sword handle still clenched between them.

It _was_ different, but I was at a loss for what to say, so I swung into one of the forms Farkas had taught me to buy myself some time.

With a frustrated grunt, Farkas met my attack and flicked his wrist. In a whir of steel, my blade pinwheeled from my hands and thudded into the undergrowth with a dull rustle.

When I glanced back up from where it had landed, Farkas was still glaring at me; his blade raised and poised.

"We're going to Whiterun," he grumbled over the top of his sword. "Unless you can give me a really good reason not to."

Biting my bottom lip, I glanced from the tip of his sword to my shield-brother's eyes, and shook my head in entreaty. "I – I _can't_ – I can't stray _yet again_ from my path. Only more will die if I do," I pleaded.

Growling in frustration, Farkas stood and sheathed his sword with a shove. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say," he stepped around me with barely a glance. "Dumb doesn't suit you."

I watched him closely, feeling hollowed and bared at the same time. He leant down; picked up my sword, and weighed it in his hand for a moment.

"I don't understand," I admitted to him. And I didn't; how were my concerns _dumb_?

When seemingly satisfied with my shortsword, he sighed and turned the blade around, offering me the handle. "Like you said. You _aren't_ a God, Celeste. Stop trying so hard to be one."

Gingerly accepting the blade and sheathing it, I was again uncertain of how to respond.

He didn't seem to require a response. "C'mon," he nodded toward the road with a flick of his head. "Bit of a walk ahead of us."

Trailing after him, I mused over his words, or his lesson, or whatever _that_ had just been. I felt wretched, if I was honest; Farkas had been trying to help, to lighten the mood or let me work out my anxiety against him through exertion, and what had I done? It seemed that I was determined to remain bleak, as though to spite myself.

And – he was right, about many things. With my head full of the life and times of previous Dragonborns, these two weeks with the Greybeards hadn't healed me of my grief over what had been lost and directed me toward the future at all. Thus far, it had only served to heighten my sense of inadequacy, and of loneliness, leaving me unable to obtain the peace of mind Arngeir had explained would be required to truly master the thu'um. It had dragged me down with a weight of responsibility.

 _How,_ I questioned myself closely? _They have done nothing but taught you how to fine-tune your thu'um, and provided you with resources to try and understand this purpose rationally. Just as you wanted._ _ **You**_ _are doing this._

Okay, so _I_ had dragged myself down. And why?

 _"Blaming yourself for stuff you didn't cause, refusing happiness because you feel you don't deserve it."_

Farkas had been right; this _wasn't_ like me at all, but it reminded me of who I had become when I had been alone in Proudspire Manor, after Giselle had left. Which, now I thought about it, was _exactly_ what I had feared would happen when I went to High Hrothgar.

I had exiled myself. Even with Farkas by my side and the Greybeards tutelage, I had pushed myself into bleak loneliness. But, as I had found out in Solitude, I was no good to anybody when I retreated from people.

"Okay," I sighed, to myself as well as Farkas.

My shield-brother turned to regard me, but waited; his expression even.

"We'll stop by Whiterun," I told him plainly. Actual hope swelled in my chest as I said it, and I found myself smiling as I added swiftly, "But we can't stay for long."

The corner of Farkas' mouth rose. "There you are."

–

It had snowed in Whiterun Hold. While we had walked swiftly after Farkas' impromptu spar, it was still a long journey on foot, and when we reached Whiterun the city was eerily quiet, thick in that time of night where it was difficult to pinpoint the hour.

The last time I had seen home had been the day after the battle. The earth had been churned and soaked with blood. Now, it looked like an entirely different place. The clumps of whiteness, made sparkling blue by the moons high above, covered all. Coming back felt right, but also made me nervous; while I had not changed, I felt as though Whiterun might have without me.

As it would be impossible to hire a horse until the stables opened, Farkas and I made directly for the city, and once within (to the quiet bemusement of the two gate guards), I wasn't certain of where to go first. To Breezehome, Jorrvaskr, or to Dragonsreach? I wished that I could burst into all three at once.

"Jorrvaskr," was Farkas' predictable response, but he followed up with a reasonable; "Vilkas is the only one who'll be awake at this hour."

"Right," I yawned my reply and let him take the lead through the streets. As much as I wanted to go to Lydia and Hadvar, I did not truly want to wake them, and I was so tired that I doubted I would be able to talk sensibly with either of them for the moment.

 _You don't even know where Hadvar is._

Surely, as the Legion's representative and Praefect, he would have been given a room in the barracks. He might be abed a mere five minute walk from me at this moment. My heart fluttered and I tried to dampen my nerves with my slow, calming breaths. _Let him sleep._

When we reached the Gildergreen, Farkas hesitated, tilting his head as he regarded the overturned ship beyond us. "Huh," he mused.

"What is it?" I drew up beside him, glancing to the building for myself; the fine lines of the hull blurred by the snow. Nothing seemed amiss.

"I was wrong," Farkas grinned. He set off again, arcing around the building and making for the training yard.

 _About what?_

I trailed after him and realised just how tired I was; the day had been so very long. I toyed with the prospect of staying up on stamina potions, or perhaps asking Farengar to cast some sort of revival spell on me, but - no, that would mean going to Farengar and asking him for assistance, which would only result in an intolerable smugness, and very likely, a request to assist him in turn. And I did not have the time to help him with his codex for Delphine.

The sound of wooden sword hitting sword drifted to me from the yard. I frowned, peering through the darkness. One of the forms was Vilkas, that much was clear, but it took me a moment longer to recognise the other, for I had only seen him in one place before, and had not truly expected to see him so soon, if at all.

" _Erik_?"

The young redhead did a double-take and stared at me, half way through a move. It was a break in his concentration that Vilkas exploited at once; flicking his practise longsword from his grasp.

"All right, I yield!" Erik held up his hands, gasping for breath. A smile grew on his face as he glanced between his instructor and us.

Vilkas grunted in annoyance. "Far too easily distracted, whelp. Put these away," he tossed his practise blade to the ground before Erik's feet.

"Sorry," Erik ducked through his grin as he bent to retrieve the swords.

Vilkas huffed and turned, crossing his arms in the process. "Brother," he nodded to Farkas in greeting. His eyes settled on me next, and his glower was betrayed by a small smirk. "Harbinger. I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

"Harbinger?" Erik sounded confused; the practise swords clattered as he all but dropped them. "But I-"

"Ignore him," I managed through a laugh.

"We missed you too, you grumpy old oaf," Farkas grumbled, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Vilkas in a bone-crushing hug.

Vilkas chuckled and patted Farkas heartily on the back before they withdrew. The glower was gone, and the smile Vilkas gave his brother filled me with fondness for the pair. "I thought my mind was playing tricks on me," he told Farkas in his quiet, lilting rumble; his hand still on his larger brother's shoulder.

"Lady Dragonborn," the greeting came from my left. I turned from the twins with a smile on my face, and stared up to the young man, who had lowered his head toward me in _bow_. He looked just as he had in the Frostfruit that night; full of wild, hopeful energy and idealistic yearning.

My grin widened as I extended my hand to him. How was Vilkas able to be gruff toward this earnest brightness? It was like kicking a puppy. "How wonderful to see you again, _shield-brother_."

"Oh – still just a whelp," he lifted his head. "I haven't been able to..." uncertainty crossed his features as he took my hand. "Um. I'm not sure – do I kiss this, or-"

I managed to reign back my amusement as I shook his hand. "That won't be necessary," I wrinkled my nose at him. "Why has Vilkas got you working out here in the middle of the night?"

"He didn't make me – I mean, I asked him for help," he glanced toward Vilkas uncertainly; placed his hands on his hips. "Well. I asked Njada, but she said no," he lifted his eyebrows briefly as he lowered his eyes. "Sort of," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

I could imagine exactly the sort of 'no' Njada would give him, and winced on his behalf.

Vilkas stepped up beside me. "We're done for tonight, pup."

"Yeap. Of course – I suppose you three want to talk, anyway," he replied brightly, grinning as he waved his hand. "Thanks again, Harbinger!"

"Night," I called out after him as he leapt up the steps.

"Good night!"

"Keep it down," Vilkas drawled warningly.

Erik hissed apologies from the verandah before disappearing inside of Jorrvaskr and shutting the door very quietly behind him.

"Reckon he'll cut it?" Farkas asked in a murmur. "Seems kind of..." he trailed off.

"Enthusiastic, to a fault," Vilkas supplied dryly, then shrugged. "Yeah, he'll be fine, if he doesn't get himself killed on his first job."

"I was going to go with 'young'."

"He's not _that_ young," I snorted, then crossed my brows as I sideways glanced at Vilkas. "And you make sure he doesn't, okay?" my eyes drifted back to the doors in wonderment. "He's only here because I suggested the Companions to him. I can't _believe_ his father agreed to let him go," I mused.

"Oh, I know," Vilkas crossed his arms, shuffling around to face me. "He told me _all_ about the night he met you, and of the stories you told him. Some days, you're all he talks about. You made _quite_ the impression."

He was more amused than frustrated and could no longer squash my smile despite the teasing lilt to his tone. I closed the space between us, throwing my arms around his neck. "I am more relieved than you can realise, to see that you are well."

"And you," Vilkas returned the hug, then pulled back, ducking down to my level. "But, why are you here? Had enough of him already, have you?" he flickered Farkas a glance.

"Watch it," Farkas grumbled. "You don't know what I've had to put up with."

"Passing visit," I replied, sending a sorry smile Farkas' way. For a moment, I had forgotten about why we had come. I tried, _really_ tried, to not let it crush my spirits. For now, no matter how long it lasted, I was home. "We need horses. We'll be off, once the stables have opened."

"But – where?" Vilkas stood, lowering his hands as he looked between his brother and I. "Why would the Greybeards need horses?"

"C'mon," Farkas stepped up beside us, throwing his arm around his smaller brother's shoulder to guide him. "We'll tell you all about it inside," he sighed.

"Right," Vilkas sounded a little baffled.

"Or, our little bard will," he thumbed in my direction. "I need an ale."

"Of course you do," Vilkas murmured flatly.

"What? It's been _weeks_."

"Actually, I could use some sleep," I admitted as I clopped after them up the stairs. The merest prospect of a bed had me yawning again. "But, here," I tugged my pack around and dug inside for the letter I had finished the previous morning. "This will tell you," I waved it toward him idly, "what we've been doing," I hesitated to yawn again. "It's for you."

Vilkas looked down with curiosity at the thick, folded parchment, and turned it in his palm. "What is it?"

Righting my pack, I stepped past them and pushed at the back door. "A letter?" I all but laughed as I held it open for them.

The moment they were within, Farkas breathed in a deep breath and closed his eyes; his face a picture of contentment. "Shor's balls, it's good to be home."

Vilkas shot me an unimpressed look. "I can see what it _is_. Why did you write me a letter if you were coming back to deliver it?"

I sobered a little. "I didn't know we'd be coming back until this morning."

Vilkas frowned but I could explain no more. The mead hall was warm – _too_ warm – and my eyelids felt heavier at each moment. Murmuring a promise to tell him everything in a few hours, I bade them good night and trudged downstairs.

There was no light ready to go so my room was dark, but I didn't care. Fully clothed in my armour, I fell face-first onto the slightly dusty bed with a flop, and gratefully gave in to my weariness.

–

When I woke, there was light. Just a weak flicker, from a candle in a handheld sconce on my far bedside table. I could hear the dim hum of murmuring voices not far off, and the scuffle of chairs and feet from the mead hall above. And – I was actually _warm._

 _Jorrvaskr_ , I smiled.

Turning to face the door, I listened, staring at the closed panels. Who had brought the candle? Tilma?

"She's awake," it was Farkas' voice, and he sounded relieved. Approaching footfalls followed, then there was a rap on the door. "Celeste?" he called. "It's past midday."

It was like an arrow to the chest. With a curse, scrambled off the bed and grabbed my pack, charging for the door and flinging it open. _Midday_? We had meant to leave for Ustengrav the moment the stables had opened!

With wild eyes, I stared between Farkas, Vilkas and – Lydia!

My eyes widened even more as I glanced over my housecarl for half a second. With a squeak, I dropped my pack and launched forward to hug her tightly. "What are you doing here?" I gasped into her shoulder.

Lydia laughed in bemusement and hugged me back, "I could ask you the same thing, little one. Farkas tells us you are bound for Ustengrav?"

"Yes," withdrawing suddenly, my eyes settled on my shield-brother. "Why didn't you wake me?"

He remained expressionless as he stared me down. "You needed sleep more than the Greybeards need some old horn," he murmured in a droll tone. "The horses are ready when you are."

Lydia's hand was still on my arm, and she squeezed it gently to draw my attention back to her. "Do you...have to leave straight away?" she asked quietly. "The Jarl would...doubtless appreciate you calling on him, and Lucia, Sigrid and Dorthe would all-"

My head swam as I glanced back to her swiftly. "They're _here_?"

Lydia nodded, smiling encouragingly. "They're staying with us in Breezehome, for a time, while they work...a few things out."

 _Thank the Gods for Lydia._ They weren't alone. They were _safe_. She could protect them, while I was unable to. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief.

"And Hadvar?" I managed as I cleared my throat and turned back to my friends. "You haven't mentioned him. I expect the Jarl gave him quarters somewhere in Dragonsreach?"

The swiftest of glances passed between Vilkas and Lydia. It was enough of a hesitation for me to realise that it was odd that he had not come to Jorrvaskr as well, to wake me.

"Does...he not know I'm here?" I tried, though couldn't mask my caution. _Surely, the Jarl is simply keeping him too busy to leave. You will see him at Dragonsreach._

Vilkas shook his head hurriedly, but it was more out of dismissal than in answer. "Peace, Celeste. He is well. He isn't in Whiterun, that's all. He left about a week ago."

"A week ago?" I echoed, crossing my brows. That was when his leave had ended. "Shouldn't he have been coming _to_ Whiterun a week ago?"

Vilkas shook his head again, but Lydia stepped in hurriedly. "Okay," she began quietly, uncertainly. " _Try_ not to despair over this but – he turned down the Whiterun post."

" _What_?" I whispered. A chill to rival the one I had endured daily at the Throat of the World seeped into my chest and gripped my heart. "Where is he?"

"He returned to Solitude for reassignment, so – who can say? Sigrid hasn't heard from him yet, but she expects to, any day now."

My frown deepened. "... _Why_? Why would he go _back_? He was looking _forward_ to this post."

"He was looking forward to a lot of things," Farkas cut in.

I knew he was trying to be helpful, so I repressed the urge to glare at him and focussed instead on Lydia. "I don't understand," I whispered, shaking my head helplessly.

"Because," my housecarl sort of shrugged and opened her mouth to say more, but no sound emerged. She was seemingly at a loss for what to tell me. "...he felt that he could be of more use there than here, I think?" she said eventually, very quickly. "I wish I could explain it to you properly. He didn't tell us much."

I just stared at her while I caught up to what she had said.

"Though, when he hears you stopped by, he might regret his decision," Vilkas added in a drawl.

 _Calm down_ , I schooled, barely hearing Vilkas. I wasn't sure if I wanted to burst into tears or _Fus_ something into a wall. _This is Hadvar's career. Hadvar's life. He is an intelligent and measured man who has never given you cause to question his actions. He knows what he's doing._

Turning my eyes to the flagstones while my mind continued to race with questions, I nodded briefly and forced myself to speak with as much rationality as I could muster. "All right. I am very sorry he's not here. Did he give...no indication of where he might be posted?" I glanced between Vilkas and Lydia.

My housecarl regretfully shook her head. "I assume that the General will put him back on special assignments. It's what he's good at."

"Okay. So, no post then," I surmised, glancing down again. I took a deep breath; tried to calm my racing heartbeat, even if I couldn't ease my mind. Hadvar being or not being in Whiterun did not change what I had to do today. I would just have to...to find the words and write that letter to him, and send it to Castle Dour for him to pick up, on his next pass through. Provided that the fiend who had stolen his letters had given up on their endeavours, of course.

Whiterun had not been meant to be, for either of us, it seemed.

" _The thought of reaching out to you helped ease my loneliness."_

Special assignments. That meant he would be _alone_. Again. Hastily I regarded Farkas and forced a smile, speaking in an effort to ignore my thoughts. We had to get moving; the tightening in my chest would never ease while we remained. "Okay. First the Jarl, then the Ebonhands," I began to walk the hallway that would lead up to the mead hall, and out of Jorrvaskr. "Do you want to come with me, or should I meet you at the stables?"

"We'll meet you there," Vilkas murmured for his brother; his voice slightly suspicious. "You've got all the company you need for now."

My footsteps were being echoed. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Lydia in step behind me.

"Okay," I nodded briefly to her. "Thank you."

She nodded in return, tightening her lips. "Any time, my Thane."

–

The visit to the Jarl was over in five minutes. Balgruuf was visibly pleased that I had called in on my way past, though did not detain me when I explained that I was on a task for the Greybeards as part of my training.

My visit to Breezehome felt just as short. Lucia had practically fallen upon me on the doorstep with a hug, and then scrunched her nose up as her eyes had flickered to my tangled mess of hair, asking if she could braid it while we took lunch. Sigrid was as welcoming as I had ever known her to be, and seemed even more comfortable in the cottage than I had been. But, Dorthe was visibly withdrawn and sat by Sigrid's side the entire time; her eyes on Lucia's motions as the little girl smoothed and separated then intertwined my hair. I felt that she stared more as a distraction, than out of interest.

It was clear that her mother was maintaining a strong front for both their sakes, but that Dorthe was struggling. Briefly, while Sigrid asked how my training was progressing, I caught a blankness of expression in the woman, too; a drifting of her attention, but with a blink and a small shake of her head, she was attentive, and smiling again.

Eventually, when Lucia patted my hair deftly and climbed down from the back of my chair, and my plate was cleared, I knew that I would have to leave. Before I rose, I asked the question that had been eating away at my tenuous calm. "Did Hadvar mention why he turned down the Whiterun post?" I tried to ask with nonchalance. The crackle in my throat might have given away my concern.

Dorthe glanced up to her mother sadly and shook her head. "He...just said he wanted to bring an end to the war," she said in a small voice.

Sigrid sighed and closed her eyes. "Hadvar is not good with good byes, as I am sure you are well aware. This...decision of his," she looked up to me. "Throwing himself into his work. It is how he deals with loss."

"That's what I am having trouble understanding," my words sounded more like an entreaty. "He would have been able to throw himself into his work from _here._ "

"It's as I said in Jorrvaskr," Lydia shrugged from across the table as she cleared the lunch things; one of the first times she had spoken since we had entered Breezehome, for she had left the talking to Sigrid and I. "He knows that he would have been useful here – but believes he can be of _more_ use, out there. Actively working against the threat day by day instead of sitting safe inside a wall filling out paperwork and talking with the Jarl," she shrugged and the corner of her mouth wrinkled a little as she turned away with laden arms.

I nodded, subdued. As usual, it sounded as though Lydia had it right, and at a loss for his actual reasoning, I would have to accept this explanation, whether I agreed with it or not.

Before long I bid Lucia and the Ebonhands good bye from the door step and shrugged on my pack, making for the main gates that led out of the city.

The snow had hardened over the course of the day, and with no more fallen, it was beginning to take on that sheen of grime that old snow drew to it. A pair of guards were chipping away at ice with pickaxes in the shadows of the guardhouse, talking with gusto about a recent bounty that the Jarl had issued.

I smiled fleetingly at their exchange. Despite not knowing where Hadvar was, I did not regret the visit. It had been good – renewing, even – to see everybody.

Lydia accompanied me to the stables, where Vilkas and Farkas were, leaning against the fence with their elbows propped on the top rung. Their backs were to the road and their eyes were on the field of horses trying to graze through the compacted ice.

I was loathed to separate them. The twins turned at our approach, and Farkas swung the gate open for us.

"Thank you," I smiled, glancing between the pair. "You know-" I began shrewdly.

"He's going with you," Vilkas cut in with a half-smirk and a knowing look. "Don't waste your breath."

I rolled my eyes at his presumption, despite the fact that he had guessed correctly. Behind me, Lydia muffled her laugh with a cough.

Stowing our packs on the mounts Farkas had obtained while I had slept, I glanced toward the city; my eyes drifting up to trace the lines of Dragonsreach capped with snow. Perhaps we could call again, on our way back from Ustengrav? Sigrid might have had word from him by then.

After embracing both Lydia and Vilkas, and promising that we would return soon, Farkas and I mounted up and guided our horses out of the yard.

 _Yes_ , I decided, with a smile on my lips as we waved good bye and called out a few final farewells. Yes, I would call in on Whiterun at every opportunity; not as a deviation from duty, but as a service to my soul. Because I _was_ still Celeste Passero, and I needed them, all of them, if I was going to make it through this with myself intact.

"Might make Ustengrav by nightfall, if we ride fast," Farkas spoke from atop the grey he had chosen for himself while we warmed the horses up at a slow, even plod.

"Good," I agreed, nodding with my eyes on the horizon. "The sooner we have the horn, the better. Is there anywhere near Ustengrav that we can stop for a rest, on the way back?" I turned my gaze to him. He knew the land better than I, and there was no point in denying it.

Farkas cocked his head in thought. "There's Solitude, if you-"

"Anywhere else?" I cut in swiftly. Going back to my former home was...quite out of the question, for the time being.

He let my edginess pass with a grunt of disgust. "Yeah. _Morthal_."

–

Farkas had sensed a cluster of people long before we had reached Ustengrav, so we left the horses in the woods, and made our final approach on foot.

The night had grown cold, but it was a damp kind that made my hair cling to my skin. It was very dark, for it was cloudy both overhead, and below, but that did not keep Farkas from picking out our path to the tomb. Mists snaked around our ankles as we walked, obscuring our feet. My bow was in my fist, and an arrow was placed, but my eyes continued to drift down as I worried that we were about to unknowingly pitch into a great hole in the ground, hidden from sight, despite Farkas' superior senses guiding us.

I should have been more worried about the people ahead of us, but my mind did not truly settle on who they might be or what they might be doing at the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller until the sound of an explosion tore through the dullness of the night.

A bright light beyond us lit up the mists, turning them orange, and both Farkas and I instinctively ducked to watch the fireball as it arced up, then fell.

Farkas cursed under his breath, then motioned for me to join him, still crouched.

I darted to his side as the sound of shouting and steel meeting steel escalated. Lowering myself down to one knee, I gripped my bow handle tighter. "What's going on?" I whispered.

"They're attacking each other," Farkas hissed. "Should be over soon."

" _Who_ are?"

"Who cares?" he grumbled, grimacing as another fireball streaked into the sky, leaving a glowing trail in the fog as it descended. "Not our problem."

I frowned at him. "It is if they're after the horn," I pointed out through a strained whisper. "Shouldn't we," I nodded in the direction of the fracas, and lifted my bow briefly, by way of explanation.

Farkas shook his head, and lifted his finger to his lips.

With an uneasy sigh, I turned back in the direction of the battle. We couldn't see any of it – the conflict was unfolding over a rise between us and the tomb – but I could hear everything. The shouts – the screams.

I shuddered, and not from the chill. Leaning up to Farkas, so that my voice would not travel, I hissed; "So we're just going to sit and wait for them to tear each other apart?"

He flashed me an annoyed look. "There are only three kinds that fight over tombs. Bandits, vampires, and necromancers," he spat. "Trust me, sister," he grumbled as his eyes darted back toward Ustengrav. Another ball of flame shot through the mists; the glare from it briefly turned Farkas' face red. "We don't want to tangle with them. But be ready to fire," he added steadily. "Whoever's left might try to run."

"Right," I assented, lifting my bow and shaking my head swiftly to try and clear it. I had to remember where I was – what we were doing. What Skyrim had become, in the wake of the civil war. The Legion could not be everywhere, policing...everything. And all kinds of people took advantage of that.

As Farkas had predicted, the battle was over swiftly enough. Nobody fled over the rise to discover us, and my arrow remained poised and ready to fire, even as Farkas made a motion with his hand that it was safe for us to proceed.

Beyond the rise was the hallowed tomb I had been tasked with venturing into; an ancient burial mound; the circular, bricked lip barely rising above the ground.

I hastily covered my mouth and nose as smoke brought the smell of charred flesh to our position. Around the entry to the tomb were the lingering remains of fires, lighting up just enough to reveal the twisted, scorched bodies of Shor-only knew who, littered around the exterior.

"All clear," Farkas murmured before he ambled on toward the burial mound as though we weren't walking through a war-zone. "Winner must have gone inside."

I cursed as I jogged to him. "What if they _are_ after the horn?" I asked him.

"Then we'll ask them _real_ nicely to stop looking for it," he cast me a wry half-smirk as he unsheathed his swords.

With a huff and a final glance around us – whoever had done this might not be so easy to 'convince' – I followed Farkas down the crumbling stone stairs. My lack of fear surprised me; instead I felt only an edgy resolve. How much had I really changed since I had ventured into Bleak Falls Barrow with Faendal?

 _You can shoot a bow now,_ I reminded myself. _And you are armed with three dragon Shouts._

All right, so when it came to sneaking through ancient Nordic tombs, I _had_ changed.

"I don't mean it, by the way," Farkas faltered as he placed both swords in one hand, so he could use his freed one to open the door. Haltingly, he glanced to me. "Promise me that you won't try to reason with them?" I could see that he wanted to say more.

I understood his hesitance, though I found it difficult to voice its cause around the butterflies in my stomach. "I promise," I nodded with a wry half-smile. I had understood his meaning the first time.

"Great," he turned back to the door and pulled. "Let's get this over with," he grumbled.

–

And just like that, our quest, and my _final trial_ , was over with. The necromancers we had followed into Ustengrav had been taken by the draugr they had woken, we had engaged the remaining undead, and Farkas and I had made our way to the tomb of Jurgen Windcaller.

The headstone, carved with a depiction of the fabled horn at its top and a dragon in flight at its base, was empty of the item we had sought.

"Where's the horn?" my shield-brother asked the obvious.

The journey through Ustengrav had been a blur of necromancer spells and rattling skeletons; of starry blue-eyed draugr lumbering awake and traps laid both recently and long ago being sprung.

Farkas and I had stuck to the shadows, watching the chaos unfold ahead of us. From what I had been able to determine from snatches of conversation, the necromancers were excavating a part of the tomb. Learning this had relieved me; they hadn't been able to get to the horn. They might have been _trying_ to dig a way to it, but they had not reached it.

And, neither had we.

Speechless, I passed Farkas the scrap of parchment I had found on the plinth with a grunt of frustration.

 _Dragonborn-  
I need to speak to you. Urgently.  
Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll come to you.  
-A friend_

A _friend_?!

"I don't get it," Farkas drawled, passing the note back; his eyes watchful. "Is this your sister again?"

"No, this isn't Giselle," I snapped, gritting my teeth. I snatched the parchment and turned away from him so that I wouldn't rage at him. He didn't deserve that. This wasn't _Farkas_ ' fault.

Had this _friend_ asked me to meet them anywhere else, then yes, I might have assumed it was the work of my sister. That Giselle had somehow found out about the horn and had known that I would come to her and Ulfric to retrieve it.

"Then – who? Who would do this to you?" my shield-brother continued in quiet bemusement.

I seethed as I marched away from the resting place of the forebear of the Greybeards. My eyes fell on a tall, arching wall of grey stone beyond it, and I veered toward it at once. If I couldn't Shout at something, perhaps learning a new word would appease my vexation.

Reading _Riverwood_ had told me all I had needed to know. No, not just Riverwood – the very _Inn_ that _she_ owned. I couldn't fathom how _she_ had made it to a tomb that only _I_ should have been able to reach. How had she gotten past the necromancers and draugr, not to mention the locked, barred doors without _Wuld_? Why couldn't she have simply come to me at High Hrothgar if she wished to speak urgently, rather than wasting my time and risking our lives in a hostile Ustengrav? And what did she want with the horn of Jurgen Windcaller?

"Delphine Comtois has the horn," I spat out.

"But _that's_ – you're sure?" he called.

Nodding in frustration, I stopped before the tall stone wall, my eyes flashing with anger as I reached forward and touched the blue flames dancing out of the scratchings. Oh, how it must have tormented Delphine, to stand before this wall of script, not being able to understand any of it.

But then, I didn't understand what the writing meant either. I only understood the dragon tongue when it was spoken to me.

As it was being, right now, though the voice was not of a tangible creature, but something _higher_ that came more as a _feeling_. A new word pulsed through my fingertips and flowed through my arms, swirling with a cool rush of clarity as the word _Feim_ ; and its meaning, _fade_ , coiled and settled in my mind.

Farkas' footfalls fell heavily on the stone pathway as he jogged to my side, seemingly oblivious to the ethereal brightness settling around me. Or perhaps learning a new dragon word was old news to him.

"Now, that's a name I had hoped I would never hear again."

* * *

 _A/n: Celeste has a habit of lingering in places she shouldn't be for chapters at a time - it was a real struggle to make her move, but I got there.  
Also if anybody is interested, I've written a one-shot follow up to my Oblivion fic/Sarina Passero's story, titled A Picture of the Past - you can find it on my author page. _


	49. I See You

_Chapter 49: I See You_

A cold, heavy downpour blurred Riverwood when Farkas and I arrived the next evening. The rain had seeped into my bones over the course of our ride south, dulling my senses. Coupled with fatigue it left little room to feel anything as I dismounted and squinted through the deluge to make out the lines of Hadvar's home.

The dragon's remains had been cleared from the street, but the abandoned building remained; windows dark and forge collapsed; a testament to purposeless wrath.

"Hey," Farkas nudged me gently, then smiled as he held his hand out for my horse's reigns. "Head on up. Rain isn't going to ease for a while."

"Right," I assented quietly.

Farkas tied the reigns to the post. The docile mares seemed unaffected by the rain and started grazing on the soggy flowers clumped by an overflowing water trough.

Perhaps the rain had dulled their senses, too. I turned my attention to the Sleeping Giant Inn. Its windows _were_ aglow with orange light; a promise of warmth, a chance to dry out, and if I was _very_ lucky, perhaps even rest.

But my eyes narrowed as I hurried up the stairs. I had not come to Riverwood to _sleep_.

I could never have imagined that the small, stern Breton woman would have been wound up in a quest that the Greybeards had sent me on. Farengar had told me that their contract was scholarly - and involved the decoding of documents pertaining to the Septim line – so _why –_ not to mention _how –_ had she taken the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller? Why go to such lengths to speak to me, when I had really made no secret of where I could be found?

My shield-brother dogged my every move, stepping past when we reached the verandah. He pushed the door open and heat flooded out to greet us; damp in its own way. We rushed into it, and the hammering of the deluge immediately softened. I hadn't realised how noisy the rain had been until we stepped out of it, and its absence brought my head a small relief. For a moment we busied ourselves brushing off water and stripping outer layers, hanging them over the drying racks close to the hearth.

All the while, my mind ticked over the actions of Delphine Comtois; what she wanted, why she hadn't just come to me for herself. _She's being hunted, remember? Maybe she couldn't risk climbing the seven-thousand steps to ask for the Dragonborn._

Sighing impatiently, I frowned. _But she can waltz into Whiterun for a meeting with Farengar?_

Determined to untangle the riddle, I glanced around for signs of her. Across the hearth, the barkeep stood serving a tall Nord woman with honey hair, half-smiling as he murmured; his words indiscernible from this side of the tap room. The resident bard – Sven, wasn't it? – sat across from the door, plucking at his lute and morosely singing _Love's Eternal Flame_ – to himself, for he had no audience to speak of.

It was so like the last time I had been here that my breath caught in my throat. Skyrim had changed; _I_ had changed; but this little inn in Riverwood? It might have been the same day I had stepped in searching for a mercenary to take me to the Barrow.

"Feels like a trap." Farkas murmured in a low, dark voice.

"She'll be here," I soothed, throwing him a glance that I hoped conveyed steadiness, despite the leap to my chest. I hadn't considered _that_. " _Relax_. Have a drink, if you like. Just – keep your eyes open, okay?" I hushed.

"Hmm," Farkas grumbled. His narrowed eyes flickered to me as he arched an eyebrow. He said no more, but his expression said it all – because of course, he could sense my unease.

Rolling my eyes, I set my sights on the bar and strode toward it. The only customer turned away and made for a nearby table with a pitcher of ale and a plate of fish and potatoes. The barkeep stood tall; observed our approach. His mouth lifted into a practised, welcoming grin.

For ten paces I agonised over whether I should ask for the attic room or not. The inn _had_ no attic. But if I wanted to retrieve the horn and return to the Greybeards, I would have to play Delphine's game – for now.

The very thought incensed me to the core. Being Dragonborn wasn't a _game._

"Welcome, travellers," the Nord behind the bar rumbled. "Bit of a sorry night to be out wandering. The name's Orgnar – what'll it be, a brew, a bed – or both?"

"Where is she?" Farkas snarled.

My heart leapt into my throat and my anger fled. I grasped his arm in warning – holding him back.

Orgnar's brows crossed in confusion; unaffected by my shield-brother's venom as his eyes flickered between us. "Who?" he frowned.

"Sorry. I mean," internally, I winced – where had _that_ come from? _Nice work, Farkas._ "I'm – _we're_ ," I took a steeling breath as I shot Farkas a pleading glance. _Help._ His bark had thrown me.

"Bed," Farkas murmured, his voice still rough, though much more controlled as he shrugged me off. "Been a _long_ day."

"I can imagine," casting him a final, wary glance, Orgnar turned his attention to me. "You can have the room across the way for fifteen septims," he motioned beyond us.

"Thank you, but," I met his eyes; gratefully calm – at least on the outside. "We've heard good things about the attic room," I fixed Orgnar with a small smile. "Is it available?"

If it meant anything to him, Orgnar didn't show it. "Having a bit of a laugh, whoever told you that."

 _No kidding_ , I arched an eyebrow, maintaining my smile.

With an amused twitch to his mouth, he nodded to a room on our right. "Try that one, then. It's a bit bigger, you might be more comfortable in it."

With a weariness I didn't have to feign, I dropped money into Orgnar's palm and yawned. "Perfect."

"Rest well," he murmured after our retreating forms.

My shield-brother clicked the door closed behind us. The sound of a laboured sigh as the key was turned in its lock travelled to me.

I glanced around the expansive room, giving Farkas some space to ease off. It was about three times the size of the one in Ivarstead, with a double bed against the back wall and two single beds against others, each with wooden storage chests at their ends.

"Sorry 'bout that," Farkas stepped up beside me, rolling his shoulders and wincing. His neck cracked ominously.

Shuddering, I shot him an exasperated look. "What _happened_ to you?"

"Eh?"

"When you snarked at Orgnar," I confirmed hastily. "You're usually so...controlled? Anything in particular...set you off?"

 _Like **my** rage, as we approached the bar?_

"Ah. I was angry, wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face," he waved a hand, nonchalant. "Wasn't you, if that's what's bugging you. Doesn't work that way," Farkas flashed me a half-smile. "You know that."

I huffed. Well, I had tried. "How _does_ it work?" I mumbled. My eyes travelled the extents of the room in case the horn happened to be lying about, even though I knew it wouldn't be. Where was _Delphine_ , then?

Farkas shrugged, frowning at the far wall. "Not sure how to explain it. Your heart just...smells different, when your emotions change, and he – _we_ want to...help? But the need doesn't control us, like...you know."

"Yeah, I know," I sighed. I slid my pack and bow to the floor as I sank to the end of a bed. For all his fumbling, he had made sense. Whatever this was between my dragon and their wolves; it didn't coerce them, as Hircine had. That was something at least.

I stared down at the thin, yellow rug covering the floorboards with a track mark worn through it; my eyes traced the stitches. "What are we _doing_ here?" I murmured at it.

Farkas didn't answer. His booted feet strode through my field of view, straight over the worn line in the carpet.

I glanced up, curious. That had been...purposeful.

My shield brother stopped in front of the wardrobe, threw it open, and huffed a laugh as he shifted aside some long coats and bumped the inner wall with his closed fist. "Thought so," he glanced over his shoulder with a satisfied smirk as the back panel of the wardrobe slid away. "Hidden room. And someone's down there. A woman."

" _Delphine_ ," my eyes widened. I stood hurriedly and pushed my weariness aside. Rushing over, I peered around him. A darkened flight of stairs, disappearing into blackness. "Good work," I whispered.

Farkas stepped inside, drawing one of his swords. "Let's get this over with."

Though I swallowed down my fear at the menacing picture he painted, I was unable to fault him, and wondered if I should go back for my bow. But then, there'd be no space to fire around Farkas in a basement.

Biting my bottom lip with indecision, I made my choice and trailed after Farkas. He had defended me against worse than a single woman, no matter who she was. I could always use _Fus Ro_ , if I needed to.

 _This isn't a battle. This is a conversation._

And with that thought – and the thu'um to fall back on if it all went wrong – I decided that I should be the one to meet her.

My eyes barely had time to adjust to the blackness before we reached the sealed door. Lifting a hand to Farkas' shoulder, I urged him to stop, conveying a wordless message with raised eyebrows when he looked to me.

I didn't see his reaction in the gloom, but when he let me pass, I figured he had gotten the message. The darkness was stifling, consuming, and I wondered why there were no signs of light from the room on the other side? Was Delphine sitting in there, alone, in the _dark_?

 _Time to find out._

I faltered as I reached for the handle – but changed my mind, lifted higher, and rapped my knuckles swiftly against the wood.

Farkas grunted in disbelief over my shoulder. I flashed him a glance, daring him to question this course. The chances of obtaining the horn and walking out with it diminished if we stormed in and rudely started making demands. I was a bard; I could talk us through this.

" _Be nice,_ " I mouthed.

At the swift clatter of approach from within I whipped back to face the door. Within seconds, a key was being turned in a lock, then another, and then a chain was being drawn back.

The door cracked open; there _was_ light within. An eye peered through the gap, flickering over me, then past me; brimming with paranoia, and accusation.

 _We were hunted by Thalmor and had to kill them, because of you,_ was the first thought to assemble, but I held my tongue. Taking a step back and bumping into a solid wall of Farkas, I managed, "I...got your note."

Delphine opened the door and stood at her full height, the accusation gone. "I suppose you did," she murmured thoughtfully.

She was wearing a common getup – a long green dress, simple leather belt, and white apron with cleaning rag hastily stuffed into one of the pockets. The fine, pale strands of her hair were neatly wound into a knot on her shoulder, accentuating the hard lines of her face. While we measured each other, I realised she was older than I had first thought. When I had seen her with Farengar, I had thought her to be somewhere in her thirties. Upon inspecting her now – properly taking in creases around her eyes and mouth, and leathery skin – I placed her closer to fifty. Her expression belied anything but simple innkeeper as she frowned between Farkas and I with piercing, ice-blue eyes.

Finally, her eyes settled on my shield-brother, and she spoke. "Why is he here?"

"He's my shield-brother," I supplied hurriedly, cutting off Farkas' response - what I was sure had been little more than a growl. "Can we come in?"

Delphine's attention was on me again and her mouth twitched as she shifted to one side. "That's right. You're one of the _legendary_ Companions now, aren't you?"

Did she actually have the nerve to ridicule me, about something I was _proud_ of, or was she always so full of judgement? "Among other things," I idled, stepping past her. If she was trying to get a rise out of me, she would not get it; Farkas' display of anger toward Orgnar had completely dulled my rage, and reminded me that there were smarter, faster ways to get what I wanted than yelling. This was now just another job that needed to perform my way through.

My eyes flit around the basement with mild interest, taking in a desk, a locked chest, a weapon rack. Not much else; it was an office devoid of personality. I turned back to the door.

Farkas shadowed me; the air about him dense and fearsome again. A bubble of nervousness burst within me, though I managed to hold back my surprise, or I might have _laughed._

" _You're_ Delphine Com-twa?" Farkas grumbled, murdering her name with his accent.

"Huh," Delphine closed the door, locking it resolutely. She hesitated, replying softly to the wood panels. "Haven't heard that name for a long time. Where did you hear it?"

"Where's the horn?" I returned evenly.

Delphine turned; nodded once that she understood. We would answer nothing until she had handed it over. "It's here. I needed to make sure that you weren't a Thalmor spy," she muttered, then made for the locked chest.

I arched an eyebrow at her back and flickered Farkas an incredulous look. He was still staring daggers through Delphine's spine.

"That's... _utterly_ ridiculous," I glanced back to her.

Delphine huffed as she threw open the lid of the chest. "Is it?"

"Do you assume _everyone_ you meet is a spy?" I countered.

She turned with a bone horn tight in her grasp. "It's how I'm still alive. Here," she held it out. "It's yours."

I stared at it; glanced back to her. She was really just _giving_ it to me?

With a dark, sidelong look, Farkas sheathed his sword and strode toward her.

Delphine's expression fell flat; unimpressed. "I'm not going to _bite_ her."

"Just – give it to him," I rolled my eyes at the both of them. "How did you get it?" I moved further into the room, leaned against the desk and squared Delphine. "There were others at Ustengrav – excavating the tomb – and they weren't the friendliest of people. I assume they were after it as well," I waved toward the horn now tucked safely in Farkas' hand.

Delphine _hmphed_. "I can be sneaky, when I want to be."

"I'm sure you can," I crossed my arms. "But that _doesn't_ explain how you got by the locked gateway they were trying to dig around. I had to use a thu'um to make it."

With a barely perceptible roll to _her_ eyes, Delphine moved toward her desk. "No, it doesn't. There's no time to explain, either," she continued plainly.

I watched her closely as she busied herself on the other side of her desk – closing books and moving them to reveal a large parchment – a map of Skyrim. Farkas stepped into the corner of my eye and passed the horn.

"Thank you," I murmured, glancing down. The large piece of bone was exceedingly plain; dark and ribbed, and curved twice; once near the mouthpiece and the other close to its trumpet. I had to admit that I had expected something a little more inspiring. "Why did you call me here, if not to talk?" I asked, dragging my eyes from it.

Delphine was regarding me with eyes narrowed but nebulous, leaning over her desk with both hands resting on the tabletop. Her thin fingers arched, seemingly reflexively. "Because you're going to help me stop dragons from coming back from the dead."

 _What? My_ stomach twisted in desperate hope and I bit my tongue to measure my reaction. Here I had been thinking that she was going to round on me about the _past_ – about the damned _Septim_ connection Farengar had postulated over!

"You know how to _stop_ them?" I fumbled hastily, incredulous. This was _much_ better – if Delphine had figured it out – I could forgive her for taking the horn, for the Thalmor attack – _anything_.

She glanced down, eyes bright as they roved the map between us. "I've identified a pattern, so I'm testing a theory, but I need your help. I've visited these dragon burial mounds," she pointed to a few spots on the map, each marked with a little red cross, "and found them empty. Dragons have always been sighted nearby. Someone is reanimating them, and I think I know where they're going to strike next."

" _They_?" I burst. "Why – who? And _how_?"

Delphine lifted her eyebrows; blinked slowly. "The question you meant to ask is _where,_ " she drawled.

"No it isn't," I stood taller, glanced to Farkas in concern. He was still and watchful, though gave me a barely perceptible nod when I made eye contact. "What if Ulfric _is_ behind the return of the dragons?" I asked in horror. _Or worse; Giselle and Ulfric?_

" _Ulfric_?!" Delphine barked a laugh.

My eyes whipped back to her. "Yes, _Ulfric_ ," I bit out. "Had the first dragon not appeared in Helgen, he would have been executed that day. His involvement is not so unlikely."

Delphine glanced down; her amusement persisted with an ironic lilt. "You give him _far_ more credit than he is owed."

"I _really_ don't."

"Ulfric is not bringing dragons back to life," Delphine's head shot up as she fixed me with a controlled stare. "But if we leave _now_ , we may have a chance to find out who _is_ responsible."

"All _right_ ," I reigned back the desire to argue with her. " _Where_?"

"That's better," Delphine smirked. "Small hamlet to the north-east, by the name of Kynesgrove."

I didn't recognise the place, but Farkas huffed a mirthless laugh. "Why would a dragon attack _Kynesgrove_?"

"Why would a dragon attack Riverwood?" Delphine countered smoothly. Her eyes flickered to me and the _knowing_ in her gaze made me uneasy. "Because it is what they do. They wake, they burn, and they kill. But not this time – if you will just – trust me."

Farkas snorted rudely, but I held my hand out to him. I could handle this. "Trust – isn't so easily given. It's earned."

Delphine tilted her head. "I gave you the horn."

Then hurriedly, she shook her head. She moved back to the chest and extracted a worn, heavy-looking plated cuirass. "Take the horn and go back to the Greybeards, if you think they have your answers, Passero."

I couldn't help but glance to Farkas; wishing I could ask what he was picking up from her. We _knew_ the Greybeards didn't know why I had been made Dragonborn, much less how or why the dragons had risen throughout Skyrim. If Delphine had any answers for me, I would _have_ to trust her, to some extent.

But I didn't like it. She wasn't just testing some theory; I felt as though she was testing _me_.

Farkas grimaced. "Your call, sister. I'm with you."

Delphine started to strip out of her clothes. I turned swiftly to give her some privacy, grabbing Farkas' arm and making him turn, when he neglected to do so.

"No. I don't believe they do," I answered finally, regretfully, over my shoulder. "But after we do this – I _must_ have some answers."

The woman grunted, and steel jangled – a struggle to tug the armour over her head, by the sounds. "If we survive Kynesgrove, I'll tell you anything you want."

Steeling myself with a controlled breath, I nodded to the wall. "All right. We'll help you test your...theory."

–

It simultaneously pained and relieved me to leave Riverwood behind us, and then I felt alarmingly clear-headed during the rainy ride north-east, considering I had just agreed to face not only a dragon, but also whoever was waking them, if Delphine's theory proved to be correct.

We travelled too fast to maintain conversation, not that Dephine would have given anything away had it been possible. I was somewhat grateful that for the moment, none was required of me, as well. All I had to do was keep my horse on the road and follow Delphine and Farkas' mounts.

As dawn had peeked over the eastern ranges, turning the top-most snow a glorious golden colour, I had slowed my mare long enough to retrieve a stamina potion from my pack.

Farkas had stayed back with me, but wrinkled his nose when I had offered half the bottle to him.

I had upended the rest without complaint; I needed to be alert more than I needed my tastebuds, and I had barely slept in the past two days.

The sun was high in the sky by the time we made our approach to the settlement. I had little time to take it in – but truthfully there was little _to_ take in. An inn – a farm – a few tents and a mine.

There were people, too – but they were in a panic, running from the village.

"What's happening?" Delphine's voice boomed with authority as she tugged her mare to a skittering halt.

"Turn around and run!" a fleeing woman screeched. "There's a _dragon_ circling the grove!"

"If it smells people the village will be next!" a man bellowed; clearly a miner, still grasping his pickaxe as he ran by.

Delphine grunted in frustration. "We're too late," she kicked her heels into her horse's flank. "C'mon!"

Hastily surveying the skies – I saw no dragon. "Shouldn't we leave the horses?" I called after her.

She didn't answer – and was possibly too far away to hear me. With an exasperated sigh, I urged my horse after her.

Farkas remained close by; matching his horse's pace to mine as we sped up. "Dismount at the crossroads!" he called over the thundering hooves and cries of alarm whipping about us.

I acknowledged with a sharp nod. The road beyond the village boundary wound a zig-zagging path across the side of a mountain, and while there was only a sparse scattering of vegetation, Delphine had already drawn far enough ahead that I had lost sight of her to the boulders either side of the pass.

The crossroad boasted enough flat earth for a post to stand on – signalling Windhelm to the north, Whiterun to the south, and Solitude to the west, far beyond the ascent we were to take to the burial mound. We jumped down and left the horses on the road – there was no other place for them. My horse whickered softly, but showed no other signs of fear.

A sudden ache filled me at the prospect of this steady creature becoming a dragon's meal because of me. Grasping her bridle, I pet her nose gently. "You be safe, okay? If the dragon comes, you run away and hide. Farkas will find you later."

She flickered her ears and lowered her head, munching at a clump of spiky-looking yellow grass with a snort.

"They'll be fine," Farkas grabbed a short bow from a flap between his saddle and saddle blanket. "Stay with me, no matter what happens up there, okay? I don't have any arrows."

"Not a problem," I slung my quiver over my shoulder. I wanted to be close to Farkas too, to make sure he didn't transform. I had a feeling that Delphine wouldn't accept his curse as readily as Lydia had. "Ready?"

Farkas nodded. "You?"

I returned his nod but dug around in my pack, extracting two red potion bottles and stuffing them into my coat pocket. "Now I am."

Farkas set off up the hill on foot, and I hurried to keep with him. After a second or two of running, the terrified scream of a horse cut through the air. Farkas whipped me back just in time to avoid Delphine's horse as it barrelled past us, its hooves smashing into the dirt path as it tore down the mountain.

"Guess Delphine's walking home," I murmured flatly.

Farkas _hmphed_ and lowered his arm, but the sound he made was overwhelmed by another – the great, steady _whoosh_ of beating wings.

We turned back to the path in unison in time to see an _enormous_ black dragon circle a point at the top of the next rise.

"Heads up," Farkas grabbed an arrow from my quiver, then started to climb again.

With a chill that shot straight down my spine, I grabbed his arm, though was unable to look away from the beast hovering before us.

" _Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse_!"

 _Phantom Sky Hunt, ever-bound dragon spirit_ rasped through my head and I tried to shake the voice clear so I could speak. "Farkas, I _know_ that dragon," I hissed urgently.

" _Slen tiid vo_!"

 _Flesh against time_ flashed through me with a thud that shook my core; my fingers tightened around Farkas' arm as my eyes clenched shut, just for a second.

Farkas' silvery eyes whipped to me. " _Know_ it?"

My gaze remained locked on the dragon as I nodded. Oh but it – _he_ – was _enormous –_ I'd forgotten just how _big_ he was.

"It's the dragon that attacked Helgen," I whispered.

Farkas cursed, glancing up along the pass; his eyes narrowed on our quarry. "Can we take it?"

I opened my mouth to tell him no, but my words died in my throat.

" _Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik_?"

 _Destroyer Devour Master, my overlord! Has time come to revive the ancient realm?_

Now _I_ cursed. The voice of a _second dragon_ propelled me forward.

Farkas was beside me in an instant, calling out over the screeches – the _conversation_ \- happening above us. "You know what's going on here?"

Focussing on running, I simply nodded; my eyes back on the black dragon – _Destroyer Devour Master_ , the other had named him. What I had heard was as clear as a bell in the recesses of my mind, but what they had said, and what we had seen, _didn't make sense_. The _dragon_ had woken the other dragon. This dragon – this Alduin – _he_ was in control. He was their _overlord._

Delphine's theory was correct – someone _was_ reanimating long-dead dragons.

We crested the rise and arrived at the burial mound, though the circular earth had been freshly spun and churned, and great clumps of compacted dirt and stone littered the clearing. Tearing my eyes from Alduin for long enough to scan the area, I saw the _other_ ; Sahloknir _–_ huge, but no where near the size of the dragon above us – his scales ablaze and his bones reforming before our eyes.

My hair and cloak whipped around me as the false wind created by the beating wings above tried to push me away. My gaze flickered to another source of movement from afar; it was Delphine, darting toward us.

"Nice of you two to join me," she called out.

How could she be so _calm_? My eyes flickered over her, wide and wild. "Turns out we weren't too late."

As I spoke, the serpentine head above swivelled toward us and I felt Alduin's very _presence_ endeavour to crush me.

" _Zu'u koraav hi, mal Dovahkiin._ "

 _I see you, little Dragonborn._ The hissing acknowledgement demanded that I _thaarn_ ; kneel, submit, _obey_.

Outside of the dialogue, the world swirled in a maelstrom of bright colours and faraway noises. Delphine was speaking, but I didn't hear what she said around the roar of my blood between my ears; the thump-thump of my _joor_ heart. A hand, large and urgent, was on my arm – I shrugged it off and took a step closer to the beast. The desire to rise, to _soar,_ thrummed through me, desperate and yearning.

But the feeling - it was not _mine_. Eyes narrowing, indignation swelled, incensed that this _dovah_ would dare try to compel _me_. " _Zu'u koraav hi, Alduin,_ " I called to him, lifting my bow; aiming at the space between his beady eyes.

The dragon screeched to the heavens; a wordless cry thick with amusement. With an arcing swoop, he turned, diving toward us.

I fired, but my arrow merely glanced off his scales as Alduin turned at the last second. A wall of air hit me in his wake, throwing me back.

For a heartbeat, I _was_ flying.

" _Fin pahlok do joor_!" Alduin jeered as his great black form wove up, up, toward the clouds. " _Sahloknir, krii niin pah_."

With a thump, I landed on my back with a wooden _crack_ ; the wind knocked out of me and my quiver smashed. _The arrogance of mortals_ , he had screeched, before ordering our deaths. I watched the skies, gaping for breath as Alduin became smaller and more indistinct.

 _He's **leaving**?_

"Celeste, get _up_!" Farkas was yelling, pleading. His hand closed around my arm; his tug urgent, desperate as he dragged me to my feet and to the side of the clearing.

 _Whump;_ my back met unyielding stone.

Farkas' fists closed around the shoulders of my armour, holding me back, and holding me up. His eyes glowed with otherworldly light, brimming with a fierce dread. "Look at me," he demanded. "Come back!"

The tether that had tied me to Alduin snapped; propelling me into the now. I drank in a breath; drowned in it, and coughed fitfully as I gasped for more, suddenly parched. The air was sharp and cold and sawed against my throat raw; too much, and not nearly enough. I grabbed for Farkas to cling to something _real_ as my other hand closed more tightly around my bow handle. "I – I'm here," I stuttered.

 _Whooooosh._

I squinted as lights flickered before my eyes; sunlight reflecting off dragon scales as the beast that had been ordered to kill us flew past.

"Any time now, Passero!" Delphine's cried from afar, her voice bitter with anticipation.

" _Dii drog Alduin uth hin dinok, mal Dovahkiin_ ," Sahloknir called.

I glanced up, watching the reborn dragon as it twisted and turned above us. The translation came to me – yes, Alduin _had_ ordered our deaths – but it was breathtaking to watch the light scatter across Sahloknir's silvery scales as he spiralled aloft, while the dense burgundy lines on his wings, neck and tail seemed to absorb the brightness. He had slept for so long, that to wake, to dance, to _sing_ , was a gift.

It was the sound of Farkas' arrow leaving his bow that woke me up this time. Sahloknir must have heard it whirring toward him – the dragon dipped to avoid it, screeching as he dived toward my shield-brother with that sound that I could only relate to amusement.

" _Nii los dii kogaan wah thaarn rok_ ," Sahloknir hissed. " _Yol toor -_!"

" _Bo_!" roaring for my shield-brother to move, I leapt in front of him before the coalescing fire could leave the dragon's maw. " _Fus Ro_!"

My thu'um forced the flames back down the dragon's throat; with a wheeze, smoke curled between his teeth as the Shout turned in on its speaker. The long body snaked vertically up, pushed by the force of my voice, flapping frantically to gain traction against the wind and _barely_ avoiding the rocks we had sheltered against.

Gratefully, nobody needed to be told that _now_ was the time to fire. Delphine and Farkas' arrows flew at Sahloknir, spearing his softer underside and wing.

When I reached behind me for an arrow to join them, my hand grasped at nothing. With a curse, I ducked, scrambling for one of the arrows that had fallen when my quiver had broken.

The dragon recovered before I had risen; bold and mocking as he glided around the clearing. " _Nii los kos aan balaan krif, ruz. Kul_!"

 _It's to be a worthy fight, then. Good!_ Gritting my teeth as my fingers clenched around arrow shaft and dirt alike, I rose, fixed on Sahloknir as I lifted my bow and took aim. Alduin had called me arrogant, but if I was, it paled by comparison to that borne by the dragon he had woken.

And every dragon he had woken before Sahloknir.

Images of days past, of _dragons_ past, flit through my mind. The western watchtower, before the Greybeards had called me. The small dragon, after the Nightgate incident. Nahagliiv, that dark and terrifying night in Rorikstead. And _Riverwood_.

Skirting out of the path of Sahloknir's attack, I re-aimed, and fired as he swept past me.

" _This is not the first dragon that the Legion has danced with."_

Hadvar's voice was like a beacon, lighting my path. There were _countless_ others out there, raised from the dead, and for what? To _revive the ancient realm_ , Sahloknir had asked Alduin, as he had been reborn.

Another arrow was thrust into my hand; Farkas dodged past me, taking aim with an arrow shaft between his teeth and his narrowed eyes on the skies. Glancing around the clearing, I found Delphine swiftly. Her eyes were focussed; her face emotionless as she released her readied arrow.

My eyes were newly opened, but now was _really_ not the time to speculate over Alduin's purpose.

Shucking off my broken quiver, I grabbed what arrows I could as I darted to Farkas' side. Sahloknir teased and taunted, screamed and raged as my shield brother and I continued to watch and fire, and I suppressed the urge to talk back to the creature. He _wanted_ my response, wanted my fear, and I would not give it to him.

Whenever Sahloknir Shouted at us, thanks to the warnings I received, there was always time to move out of its way – time to evade, and then, time to fire as the beast zipped past.

When my eyes weren't on Sahloknir – when I dared to glance her way - Delphine was always directly opposite us; her sharp eyes trained on the dragon's underbelly – darting aside whenever the dragon's claws, tail, or fiery breath, drew too close.

It took longer to ground Sahloknir than it had to ground any other dragon I had faced, but once enough arrows had pierced his wings, he tumbled down, crashing on top of his own burial mound with a furious screech and a resounding _thud_.

The moment he was down, Farkas and Delphine leapt at him. My shield-brother threw his bow aside and drew both swords before he had landed, and his eyes flashed as he buried his blades to the hilt into the dragon's belly. Delphine appeared from the other side, launching herself onto Sahloknir's neck, still wearing that impassive mask around icy-blue eyes that gleamed with fanatical victory as she drove a long, thin blade down.

" _Ni!_ " Sahloknir wheezed in agony. " _Zu'u lost nunon su'um fin lok ont!_ "

Aiming my last arrow, I shuffled forward, and fired. _Yes_ , I thought, as the translation thrummed through me. _And you could have tasted the sky for longer, had you not bent to Alduin's will._

I lowered my bow; my breath hitching as my arrow cut through the softer skin underneath the dragon's eye.

He screamed, throwing his head back. Delphine and Farkas twisted to move with him, reaffirmed their grips; drove their swords home again.

I startled at the brutality of my companions, knowing that this had to be done. The word _Riverwood_ thumped through my head, in time with the beat of my heart.

" _Zu'u fen bo! Zu'u fen lahney!"_

I was struck by the longing to Sahloknir's cries; his _pleas_ to fly, to _live_.

But it was too late. " _Daar los hin dreh, Sahloknir_ ," I told him, taking a step forward, recognising the dragon's death throes. _This is your doing, Sahloknir._ He did not have long, and he would hear me before he died; before I absorbed his soul.

While he shuddered, his sharp, almost white eyes found me; wide with anticipation, with _knowing_.

"Stop engaging with it, Passero," Delphine barked. "Finish it off," she grit her teeth, locking her legs around his neck, driving her sword toward the dragon's skull.

It was a death blow; Sahloknir arched a final time and his maw flew open as he screamed.

"There's no need," I told Delphine, watching as his head dropped slowly down; jumping a little as his skull thudded against the ground. The light in his eyes extinguished, and his tongue lolled obscenely between his razor-sharp teeth. " _Nii oblaan_ ," I whispered. _It's done._

Relief and sadness swamped me with equal ferocity. Sahloknir had attacked us – _taunted_ us – would most certainly have killed us, had we not been equipped to meet him.

But I had felt the compulsion of Alduin for myself when he had looked upon me, looked _through_ me and identified me as _dovakiin_. I had found the will to fight him – but then, I was not a dragon. I was a human woman with a strange connection to them that nobody, not even the scholars who had studied the Dragon Blood for eras, properly understood. So perhaps I couldn't be bent to his will, as his kin could. Perhaps _this_ was the protection of Akatosh; perhaps this was all being Dragonborn truly _meant_.

The ethereal brilliance of Sahloknir's soul blinded me the moment it crashed into me. I squeezed my eyes shut as I accepted the heavy intelligence, hearing, feeling an echo of his own regret as his presence merged with those I had taken before him. His will, his individuality, scattered, insubstantial, and all that remained was his power, fortifying me against what – no, _who_ – I would have to face.

My eyes whipped open; brimming with tears from the too-bright glare as a potent realisation struck home. I hadn't been made Dragonborn to slay dragons. I had been made Dragonborn to _save_ them.

–

"Do you even hear what you're saying?" Delphine asked; her tone thick with disdain. "The Dragonborn is _the ultimate dragonslayer,_ not their _saviour_ ," she barked.

"No, _listen_ to me," I insisted, leaning across the table and fixing her with a determined gleam. "I can hear _everything they say –_ what possible reason could _Akatosh_ have for giving me _this_ ability, if not to understand them and what _they_ face?"

Sitting back in frustration, she appealed to the ceiling; " _Talos_ , give me strength."

We had been talking for hours. The Braidwood Inn was still empty in the wake of the dragon sighting, and would be for hours, possibly days yet.

But Delphine had insisted that we go inside for our 'little talk'.

And talk we had. After Delphine had stalked through the tiny tavern and pronounced it safe, we had assembled around the table furthest from the main door.

Delphine had introduced herself properly. She was a member of the _Blades_ ; _that_ was why the Thalmor were after her. I recalled a little of their order from stories – _On Oblivion_ was littered with references to their third-era Grandmaster and a smattering of others who had endeavoured to make Martin Septim the Emperor of Tamriel. They had been the bodyguards of Emperors, before disbanding around the time of the war, and the Penitus Oculatus had taken their place.

But Delphine knew more – _so_ much more – and if half of what she told me was true, her paranoia was well placed.

The Blades had not disbanded – they had been hunted down and silenced by the Thalmor. She was the only surviving member, as far as she could tell, and had been evading attack since the Great War by keeping her head down in places too small to attract the attention of anyone. But while she had hidden, she had also searched; ever-devoted to locating the next great Dragonborn to watch over.

 _That's why she's searching for the identity of the Hero of Kvatch,_ I realised with a thud. If she could locate the Septim line, prove it had continued on into the fourth era, she would be able to watch them from afar, until a Dragonborn awoke.

She had sighed laboriously and shaken her head in a pensive manner as she had drawn her explanations to a close. "I didn't believe what I heard in Farengar's office that day," she mused. "A scrap of a girl, a _bard_ , claiming to have activated a word wall," she huffed a bleak laugh. "I was _so certain_ that you were a spy. But I cannot deny what I've seen. Cannot deny the _facts_. You _are_ Dragonborn," she shrugged helplessly. "So, it is my duty as a Blade to protect and guide you," she added solemnly.

She said nothing of my lineage, and I took it to mean that she had not located the evidence she needed to explicitly pin that bloodline to mine. Though, now that she had acknowledged I was Dragonborn, perhaps she wouldn't need to?

While Delphine had started out reverent and pacified to some extent, her stern exasperation had returned when I had told her what the dragons had said, and more importantly; what the exchange had revealed to me about my purpose.

I flickered a glance Farkas' way, reaching to find a way to make her see reason. "Farkas – what do you say? It's not so implausible that the dragons are being coerced into attacking us by this Alduin, is it?" I asked pointedly. The parallels between their pact with Hircine and the dragons plight was not so dissimilar – but I couldn't come straight out and _say_ it.

My shield-brother's silvery eyes flickered to me uneasily as his back straightened.

"Don't ask me," he lifted a tankard the size of my head to his lips. "This is _definitely_ Vilkas territory," he added with a mutter before he took a lingering draught.

"Alduin, Sahloknir, Nahagliiv-" Delphine shook her head; her eyes narrowed. "You talk as though these beasts have a society, have _reason_. They're not _pet rabbits_ , Celeste. They're killers. Do you forget what - and _who_ you have lost to their flames?" she demanded.

I clenched my mouth shut so I wouldn't snap and took a deep breath through my nose, glaring through my lashes as I eased out a response. "Of _course_ I haven't," I bit out quietly. "But do you judge a race by the deeds of one? I have lost more people at the hands of men following orders than I have dragons; do I tar all of humanity with the crimes of a few?"

Delphine sat back, fixing me with an aghast, wide-eyed stare. I could see how it pained her to maintain civility as she replied, "You are naïve beyond belief."

The corner of my mouth tilted down. "You call me naïve because I don't leap into battle cutting dragon's heads off without questioning _why_ this might be happening?"

"No," Delphine hissed furiously. "I call you naïve because you have made up your mind about something based on your _feelings_ , not facts. Dragons don't just bring other dragons back from the dead!"

Was all we had witnessed not _fact_ enough for her? But again, I reigned back my response; took a moment to pause, collect my thoughts, breathe. Yes, she had seen all that I had seen – but she had not _heard_ them. Every dragon I had faced had roused something deeper than sight and sound, and emotion; it called on _instinct_. As the silence lengthened, I searched for words to express how I knew what I claimed to know, but it was such a large, complicated experience that I couldn't settle on anything adequate.

"You have a better idea of what's going on, then?" Farkas spoke when I failed to.

"Again," Delphine's icy gaze flickered to my shield-brother. "I have theories," the hard edge to her voice smoothed as she continued. "That black dragon, your Alduin, did not just suddenly _appear_ in Skyrim after a thousand years to wake its buddies. _Somebody_ had a hand in bringing it back. It's our job," she glanced to me, "to find out who that is. Then we will find our why – and more importantly, a _how._ How to stop it."

I made myself consider her words. She was right in one regard; someone, or something, had woken Alduin at Helgen that day. He had not been circling a dragon mound, bringing another dragon to life; he had attacked, and his goal had been to kill – to destroy.

Fixing Delphine with a speculative look, I relented. "All right. Who do you think is pulling Alduin's strings?"

The Blade leaned forward, her palms flat on the table. Her eyes gleamed with zeal as she raised her eyebrows and whispered, "The Thalmor."

I sat back, unimpressed. After all that _build up_! "Of course you do," I murmured.

"No – I listened to your heart bleeding empathy for the dragons, now you will listen to me," she demanded. "The war would have been over had the dragon not attacked Helgen that day. Skyrim now finds itself in the middle of not only a civil war, but suffers indiscriminate dragon attacks. Everybody – Empire, Skyrim – we're all weaker for it. Everybody loses. _Except_ for the Thalmor."

Sitting straighter in my seat, I asked flatly, "You have _facts_ to support your theory?"

"Not yet," she narrowed her eyes minutely. "But – I'm working on it."

"On what?"

"A plan. A way to get into the Thalmor Embassy, gather information, and get out," she offered smoothly. "I'll need your help, though."

I coughed a laugh, glancing to Farkas with incredulity. Hadn't she told me that the Blades served the Dragonborn? I didn't want to pull rank on her – I didn't honestly expect her to _follow_ me – but who did she think she _was_?

Farkas stood; his chair legs scraped loudly against the floorboards. "Think we're done here," he murmured, tossing a coin on the table for his ale. "C'mon, sister."

I had to agree with him. As I stood, Delphine did as well; leaning closer. "Okay. You know where to find me, when you tire of dragons killing all that you love. But, I've answered all of your questions – will you answer _me_ one thing, before you leave?" her gaze was unyielding.

"That depends on the question," I conceded warily.

For a beat, she glanced over me; searching, considering.

Finally, she spoke; "Want to save your sister?" Delphine smirked. "Or should I ask; _would_ you?"


	50. Going Home

_Chapter 50: Going Home_

My first instinct was to slap Delphine, but Farkas caught my arm before I could lift it.

A rumbling reminder that I didn't need to answer her registered. _We have the horn. We can go._ I barely heard what my shield-brother said beyond a sudden ringing in my ears.

I couldn't tear my eyes from Delphine as indignation swelled and spilled through me, searing hot, threatening to consume what remained of my control. Of all the _manipulative_ – it was a low blow, even for her. I clenched my jaw tight and shook my head.

"No Farkas, it's all right," I replied with a steadiness that somehow sounded as though it was occurring miles from me. "I will answer. Giselle is her own woman."

Delphine's eyes widened in disbelief. "You think your own sister deserves the _Thalmor_ for standing up for what she believes in?" she huffed. "Better to have no empathy than to misapply it as you do, Passero."

"I'm can't - _storm_ the Thalmor Embassy and demand they hand her over!" I fired.

"Celeste – c'mon," Farkas tugged purposefully.

"I said nothing about _storming_ anywhere," Delphine licked her lips; flickered Farkas the briefest of glances as I shrugged him off. "And, you didn't answer the question," she added with more resolve. "Do you believe your sister deserves torture for what she did?"

"Of _course_ I don't – _nobody_ deserves-!"

"Good," she cut me off, standing taller. "What if I told you that we _can_ free her? Would you do it?"

Deflating, exasperated, I huffed bleakly. " _Nobody_ escapes the Thalmor," I muttered.

The Blade smirked. "And what do you think I've been doing for the last thirty years of my life?"

"You weren't locked up in one of their _cells_ -"

"All the better," Delphine stepped out from behind the table, motioning toward the door. "We know exactly where she is. I can't draw you a map, but I know a guy-"

" _No_ – stop. I haven't agreed to _any_ of this," I glanced Farkas' way. My shield-brother looked distinctly uncomfortable, but threw me a half-shrug in answer to my wordless question; _should_ I go after Giselle?

I turned back to the Blade. He didn't know, and it wasn't fair of me to ask him; this was between Delphine and I.

She had been silent for too long. Her eyes were on the floor and she was smiling – a small, ironic curl to one side of her mouth. "I envy you, Passero," she murmured thoughtfully. "I am so infrequently offered a simple choice that I have forgotten how others might take liberty to consider options."

She was trying to manipulate me, even now. "Matters of trust are rarely simple," I replied quietly.

"No. They're not," she placed her hands on her hips; glanced to the door. "So let me _make_ it simple for you," she sighed, squaring me. "Go back to the Greybeards. Tell them of your epiphany, or whatever you want to call it. Just – _examine_ your purpose, after that. Figure out whose side you're on. Skyrim needs you _here_ , not on some mountaintop using that voice of yours on the clouds."

Vilkas had said much the same to me in the past. So, against my better judgement, I found myself agreeing with her. And – to absolve the dragons but condemn Giselle, without knowing the full truth of either? I _was_ a hypocrite.

"And more than ever, your _sister_ needs you," she continued emphatically.

"Yes all right," I snapped, clenching my eyes shut to resist the urge to thu'um her across the room. "You have made your point," I admitted. "Tell me your plan."

Farkas grunted with annoyance. "You're _serious_?"

Delphine's expression lifted; flat to confused. The look was gone in a flash.

"You can see sense," she quipped, recovering; her voice once again oozed authority. "Good. Because my plan hinges on how good a bard you really are."

"How so?" I deadpanned.

"The Thalmor love their parties," she smirked, but there was no humour to it. "How much do you know about Vittoria Vici?"

The two statements weren't really connected. I arched an eyebrow. "Enough, I suppose?" I had never been introduced to her in Solitude, but then the snooty woman and I had never taken any great interest in each other.

"Enough to _be_ her?"

"I don't follow."

"If I get someone to magic you to look like her, could you do it – could you play her part, for an hour or two?" she explained swiftly.

For a beat, I stared at Delphine as my mind knit together what she was _actually_ proposing. "Pretend I'm _the Emperor's cousin_ at a _Thalmor_ party?" my head span. "Are you _insane_?"

"Perhaps so, but you haven't answered the question," Delphine tilted her head; her unerring icy gaze never left me. "Could you do it?"

My exasperation peaked and I held a hand out in entreaty. "Do _what_? Infiltrate the Thalmor embassy, _somehow_ tie them to the rise of the dragons, and rescue my sister? As _Vittoria Vici_?"

Delphine stood back, seeming satisfied, and crossed her arms. "Sounds easy when you put it like that. Maybe you _can_ pull it off."

Crumpling down into the chair, I stared at the tabletop, suddenly numb. "Farkas, can I trouble you to get me a drink?" I murmured.

Farkas made a sound of agreement and stalked towards the bar.

Glancing up, I fixed the Blade with a cautious look. If it was within my power to free my sister from Thalmor torture, I _had_ to try, even if I had no idea what I would do with her if I managed it. "Tell me what you want me to do," I murmured.

–

"So..." Farkas blew out a great puff of air.

I stared at the road – beyond the road – idly guiding my horse onto the path leading west. "So," I echoed quietly.

Finally, my shield-brother and I were alone; we had left Delphine in Kynesgrove minutes ago. She was to journey back to Riverwood to arrange papers and a distraction for the real Lady Vici, and we were to go to...

"Solitude, huh?" he commented, too idly.

"Mm."

"Last place in Skyrim you want to go."

"Yeah."

"To prepare to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy."

"Uh-huh."

After a weighty pause, Farkas sighed. "Vilkas is going to kill us."

"Well," I reconsidered swiftly. " _My_ infiltration. There's no way you can come in there with me. Don't worry, I'll deal with Vilkas."

Farkas made an aghast choking sound, but took a moment to form a coherent sentence around utterances including 'alone' and 'Thalmor' and a whole lot of swearing.

I let him get it out of his system, and fixed my eyes on the horizon.

"Why are you letting her control you?" he finally managed.

"I'm not," I squared him with a hard look. "She _thinks_ she's manipulating me. Let her think it."

"She's using you to collect information _she_ wants, with your sister as bait," he growled. "Going after Giselle didn't cross your mind until she put the thought there."

"No," I admitted in a regretful whisper. "And perhaps it should have."

I could feel Farkas' silvery gaze on me, but for the moment, couldn't meet it as shame prickled at the back of my neck.

"She betrayed you. Betrayed your family, all of Skyrim," he reminded quietly; darkly.

Frowning sadly, I tried to collect my thoughts. He was right, but...

"Farkas...I don't trust Delphine," I conceded. "And yes. Giselle made stupid choices and has done _horrible_ things, by all accounts," I faltered. "I don't think I can ever forgive her, but that's not what I've been asked to do," I glanced ahead again, still uncertain of how to assemble this...unease into words.

"I feel as though I am only seeing part of a much bigger picture," I admitted finally. "The Thalmor should never have taken her in the manner that they did. They could have walked into camp and asked Tullius to hand her over, and he'd have been in no position to refuse. But they didn't," a white cloud puffed before me as I sighed. "They paralysed her and stole her away in the dead of night."

A sudden thought took me. I looked swiftly to my shield-brother, derailing whatever he had been about to say. "What did you sense from Delphine?"

Farkas grunted in frustration. "Walls. Paranoia. And more walls."

" _Walls_?"

"Yeah," he winced as he tilted his head; tried to explain. "She's been hiding for so long, she's taught herself not to feel a whole lot."

"That bodes well," I muttered.

 _Delphine does not pull your strings,_ I assured as I frowned at the skyline. I could walk away from this at any time.

As we drew nearer to Solitude, a surprisingly fierce sense of longing overcame me. I was apprehensive as ever about returning – I had been avoiding the city for months. But in conflict to the deep-seated anxiety was a sudden desire to walk through the familiar streets and buy breakfast at the marketplace. To stand by the ocean and listen to the crash of the waves against the cliffs as the sea spray dusted my cheeks. To visit the Temple; take flowers to my parents' graves.

Perhaps it was time? Perhaps I _could_ return?

It was full light by the time we reached the outskirts of Solitude and turned our mounts onto the path to Katla's Farm. The stable owner was directing her son and another farm boy when Farkas and I dismounted in the entryway.

When she noticed our arrival she hurried over, but there was no mistaking her faltered step or the guarded look she threw between us when she drew near enough to recognise me.

"Morning, Katla," I greeted wearily with a forced smile. I could only reason her wariness as the product of gossip about Giselle and I, and my heart plummeted at the prospect of stepping into town and being met with suspicion from everyone I had ever known.

Katla frowned and confusion marred her features. "Miss Celeste? What are you...?" she hesitated, taking in Farkas' presence.

He stood beside me saying nothing, with his reigns in his fist and a flat expression on his face. To those who didn't know him, I supposed his looming, dispassionate exterior would seem a little menacing.

"Farkas," I elbowed him discreetly as I cleared my throat, determined to promote ease; to prove that I was _me_. "This is Katla. She taught my sister and I to ride when we were little. Looked after our horses our whole lives, too," I pointedly reinforced my smile. "Farkas is my shield-brother," I introduced.

Farkas cracked a half-smile, holding out his reigns and mumbling a hello.

"Hail, Companion. Sorry," she shook her discomfort off; her eyes flickered back to me as she grabbed for Farkas' reigns. "I forgot – you're a Companion now. Strange," she mused. "You _have_ given up the College, then?"

I shook my head. An itch crept down my neck and a taunting voice in my mind told me I had been a fool to think I could come here and avoid such probing questions. "I...don't know."

"But, I suppose you are too busy to study," she reached for my reigns, feigning a casual air. "They're saying you're the Dragonborn."

I didn't need wolf senses to feel the nerves radiating off her. With a snort; an attempt to diffuse the tension, I handed them over. "So _they_ tell me, too. Who's _your_ they?"

"Well – everyone, I suppose," she owned quietly with a brief roll to her eyes. "And who's this, then?" she turned to my mare, brushing her hand down her nose as the dapple grey flicked her ears and stomped a hoof. "I haven't seen you before, darling."

"Oh," truthfully, I had been too preoccupied by...everything, to ask if my horse had a name. "Um...?"

"Misty," Farkas grunted, flicking his head toward his piebald. "And that's Patch."

" _Seriously_?" I lifted my eyebrows at him. The two most uncreative names ever bestowed upon horses? "I've been riding around on a grey horse named _Misty_?"

"That's what the hand in Whiterun called her," Farkas shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Katla chuckled fondly. "Oh, Skulvar," she murmured, though looked endearingly to Farkas' horse as she said it. "Never change."

Farkas retrieved our bags and I passed Katla some money and advised that we wouldn't need the horses over the coming week.

Of course, if all went to plan, I would be leaving Solitude in three night's time, briefly. But I didn't want her to know that.

It was imperative that the people of Solitude not only saw me, but knew my intended schedule for this...visit. They would be my alibi, if anything went wrong at the Embassy.

"This is absurd," I hissed to myself as Farkas and I stepped onto the main road and ascended to Solitude.

Farkas made a sound of agreement. "Not opposed to walking away, sister," he grumbled, in a way that told me he already knew my answer.

Shaking my head, I clawed my fingers through my mane, untangling what remained bound in the grimy braid as I looked upon the high, grey-stone walls. Dappled, shifting shadows danced over the vertical surface, cast by the windswept, leafy trees scattered around the outer borders, clinging to the cliffs for purchase.

"Not yet," I decided. Grimacing, tingling with nerves, I re-braided hastily. Delphine's target party was in three night's time, and our only job prior was talk to her Malborn. Before that, I simply needed to be _seen._

Self-consciousness joined my roiling anxiety as I realised I could _smell_ myself. When had I last washed? High Hrothgar? With a wrinkle to my nose, I determined our first course of action; go to the Winking Skeever, hire a room, and take a bath. I was a Passero, after all, and in Solitude, appearances had to be maintained.

–

The attitude of the Haafingar guards on duty outside should have been my first clue that something _bad_ was about to happen. There was only caution and bleakness to their demeanours as they let us into Solitude without incident.

One mumbled a mechanical morning greeting, while the other wordlessly held open the panel of heavy steel, then clanged it closed behind us.

The walls and buildings were all still there, just as I remembered them; tall, grey-blue stone supported by thick wooden beams and strung with coloured bunting, crawling with tangles of verdant creepers. It was pretty; merry even, to look upon.

But the people milling around the courtyard inside the gate were thick with tension.

Nobody noticed my home coming, and I was a little relieved, given the state of me – until I followed their gazes to the platform on the eastern wall.

A crowd of Legion officers and Captain Aldis, of the Solitude Guard. A prisoner – grimy tunic, hands bound before him and a shock of red hair, tied back at the base of his neck. Turning and squinting to get a better look – I recognised him – not by name, but I knew his face. He was local, I was sure of it.

Farkas' hand landed on my wrist, urging me to move. "C'mon. Don't need to see this," he said quietly.

My eyes widened as I noticed the final member of the party – a hooded headsman.

" _Gods_ ," I turned; my eyes traced the worn cobbles underfoot as Farkas towed me through the throng. We had arrived in time for _an execution_. Murmurs from the nearby townsfolk brushed past us – sad and angry and accusing, and all directed at the man about to lose his head.

"Roggvir Larsen, you have been found guilty of treason," Captain Aldis' voice rang out over the murmurs; weighed down by very evident, grim disappointment.

 _Roggvir **Larsen**? _ My head whipped up; I half-turned back, twisting my wrist in Farkas' grasp so he would stop with me.

"Just – wait," I whispered pleadingly to my shield-brother. I searched the prisoner – Roggvir – barely recognising him. His brother-in-law was the town fishmonger. I didn't really _know_ him – they were merchants – but I knew _of_ him.

The muffled sobs of a child drifted to me. Eyes wide in disbelief, I glanced over a little girl no older than Dorthe with her face buried in her mother's skirts. Glancing up to the girl's mother, the woman's name came to me; _Greta._ Roggvir's sister. I didn't really _know_ her either _._ A blankness consumed her paled features while she held the little girl to her, brushing her back idly. Underneath her bonnet poked the same red hair as her brother.

"Why are you letting her blubber?" an angry voice spat toward Greta. "Nobody grieves a traitor!"

It was the woman who worked at the alchemy shop; her eyes narrowed to vicious slits. Her name eluded me. Greta ignored her; her eyes never left her brother.

"For assisting Ulfric Stormcloak and his people in their escape after the murder of the High King, you are sentenced to death by beheading," Aldis continued grimly.

The blood drained from my face as I slowly faced the platform again; my grip on Farkas' arm strengthened and time seemed to slow down.

The cries and boos of the crowd drowned out my aghast, " _What_?"

Farkas' breath fell close to my ear. " _Celeste_ ," he hissed.

Glancing to him swiftly – he had ducked down to my level – I met his eyes fearfully, and saw conflict in his silvery depths.

" _Giselle_ helped the Stormcloaks escape, through our _garden_ ," my lip shuddered as I searched him for answers. "Why are they beheading a man for something _she_ did?" I pleaded.

"I don't know," Farkas muttered, detangling my hand to lift his arm; wound it around my shoulders; rose to his full height and flickered a dark look toward the woman who had growled at Greta.

"There was no murder," Roggvir's voice cried out from the platform; thick with emotion. "Stormcloak challenged the High King, as is our way-"

My eyes slammed shut – _this_ again? That _lie_ was _still_ circulating? It was too much to bear, too fast. I tried to block it out – the sounds, the lies, the crying of the little girl and the catcalls of the townspeople. All of it.

Farkas took my reaction as permission to resume towing me away from the scene. I let him, but we had lost our chance to leave before the axe fell.

When the dull _thunk_ came to me and the onlookers cried out, shocked but morbidly fascinated, my stomach clenched. My eyes watered. My throat burned.

I pitched forward and threw up.

Farkas swore as he reinforced his grasp to keep me from falling into the mess. It mostly landed on the steps of the Winking Skeever. When my stomach could vacate no more, I coughed and coughed while tears blurred everything before me. I was being lifted – the lighting dimmed, we were inside – Farkas called out to someone for a room, and water, lots of water.

 _The Skeever_ , I registered.

I felt curious eyes on me but didn't care. I cried into his shoulder, horrified, angry, confused and _so guilty_ while Farkas did _everything_ for me. Again.

Even once we had retreated to the upstairs room, the world blurred for a time. My shield-brother deposited me on a table and pulled the cork from a bottle of wine with his teeth, passing it to me.

"Drink," he ordered, stalking toward the window and slamming it closed.

I jumped at the sound, though it brought me somewhat back to myself. He was just standing there, his shoulders tense, staring out the window and taking deep, noisy breaths.

Glancing between my shield-brother and the bottle, I placed it on the wooden surface beside me with a _thump_ and burst out thickly; "Is that your solution to everything-?"

Farkas turned swiftly, his eyes dark and glowering as they darted around the room. "Calm down," he barked. His eyes flashed amber as he gripped the window sill and grit his teeth.

I stilled. Was he talking to me, or himself? The anger rolled off him in waves, but none of his fury flowed toward me. No - I looked again. This wasn't anger; it was _fierce_ restraint. Fresh guilt surged through me; he was _suffering_. He had gotten us away – he had appeased his wolf and protected me – but the looming tension of what I had to do – and the horror of what we had just landed in – was fracturing his control.

Sliding off the table, I approached as, unbidden, a song swelled out of me. " _Do you fear me, dear intruder? Will you listen when I speak?_ " I sang quietly. The notes trembled, thick with tears and made unsteady by the grief coursing through me.

Farkas stilled. His eyes, brimming with gold, found mine in an instant, and fixed on me.

I pushed on. I had never had to bring _Farkas_ down before, and a small, defeated part of me insisted that I wouldn't have the strength to reach him; I had realised he was in trouble too late. " _Do you want to hear my story? Know the terror that I wreak?_ " I held a hand out gingerly; wrapped my fingers around his knuckles and pried them from the window ledge.

" _Follow silken webs through darkness_ ," I clasped the enormous hand in both of mine, " _and you'll find just what you seek._ "

There was more to _The Whisperer's Song_ , but I opted to quietly hum the next verse as I glanced down, turned Farkas' hand in mine, and traced the lines on his palm with my fingertips.

When his hand stopped shaking, I squeezed it and glanced up cautiously. Silvery eyes met mine; just as they were supposed to be. "Better?" I asked softly.

He huffed a laugh, as though I was crazy for asking. With a glance to the world outside; "Yeah," he conceded gruffly.

I released his hand and took a step back. "Executions always bring out the worst in people," I swallowed. "Can't imagine what all those emotions must have felt like."

"Yeah."

"Sorry I got sick on your boots."

"Oh," he glanced down, checking said boots. His shoulders rolled as he shrugged. "They've seen worse."

I laughed quietly, feeling alarmingly weightless as I returned to the table and retrieved the wine. I sobered, turning back to offer it and an apologetic smile. "Guess we had better get to work."

Farkas accepted the bottle, took a quick swig, and lowered it to his side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he repeated quietly.

–

The finality of what had occurred settled over me while I bathed. There was no way to tell whether Roggvir's execution had been warranted – not at this time – and there was also no way to bring him back. He was in Sovngarde now, and whether he had died for my sister's crime or not, it was done.

If I managed to drag Giselle out of the Thalmor Embassy in three night's time, she would owe me her life. I had worried over what to do with her if I succeeded – whether I could rescue her from one kind of death to deliver her to people who would surely give her another – trial and a public execution. Whether she answered my questions about her actions would determine my course, I decided.

Farkas had ordered a bath as well when he had realised there would be no moving me from mine, where it had been set up behind the dressing screen for privacy. After living in close proximity to my shield-brother at High Hrothgar, I was beyond the embarrassment of the accidental eye-full I had caught from time to time, though it didn't stop me from _trying_ to make him behave a little more discreetly.

After washing he had scrubbed his armour free of dirt, blood – and vomit – for he insisted on wearing it, instead of sending it away with mine. His eyes were lined in fresh war paint, and his inky hair was almost dry, hanging lankly over his shoulders like thick, black eels.

He seemed much more himself – calmer at least. The slow preparations had done much to resolve us both.

I had acknowledged while looking out the window before we departed that Solitude was no longer my home. To accept this relieved me; freed me from the anxiety I had felt over facing judgement from those who had known me since I was a child. It freed me of the guilt I had borne for avoiding my parents' resting place.

It was midday by the time Farkas and I left the Winking Skeever, and a determined, somewhat chilling sense of normality appeared to have taken hold of the town. The sun shone in a dark blue, cloudless sky, and hawks lazily circled the highest towers, buffeted by the ocean zephyrs.

I walked the familiar streets, breaking in new ankle-boots, dressed in a long, beige woollen dress and half-length maroon cape, embroidered with ivory knot-work around the seams that I'd had sent over from Radiant Raiments across the way not half an hour earlier. It was odd to feel skirts swishing around stockinged legs after weeks of wearing training gear and armour, but it was a _nice_ kind of weird, as though I was dressed up for a role I had once been accustomed to playing. My hair was washed; the long curls left free to dry in the open air, and my skin was clean for the first time in many days. My armour and coat were being seen to by the people at Raiments, and I would collect them tomorrow.

"After we're done in Solitude," I said amicably to Farkas, "we should stop in at Whiterun. I miss it," I admitted as we made our winding way to one of the food vendors in the market square.

Farkas sent me one of his open, happy smiles, but opted to say nothing and simply stepped into the queue behind me.

After lunch, Farkas and I ascended to the Blue Palace. I bypassed Proudspire; tall, cold and boarded up, and decided not to bother Melaran after all. There was no point in removing the security only to have to ward it up again in a week's time. Farkas and I could stay at the inn until we were done here.

It was dampening to step through the open gateway and past the garden beds of the Palace courtyard. Someone had been tending to the flowers – the thistles were gone, and the rows of remaining plants were painfully neat. The guards posted around the garden were standing to attention, exchanging glances as we passed, but they said nothing to me or my shield-brother.

"Hail, Dragonborn," the one on the door was the first to speak in a low, thick accent.

"Good afternoon," I dipped a brief acknowledgement as I stepped through the opened door.

Farkas huffed quietly as the door closed behind us. "Feels like you're expected."

I send him a quick, tight smile. If we hadn't been noticed at Roggvir's execution, someone would have certainly seen Farkas and I in the marketplace taking lunch, and would have rushed to the palace to bring Jarl Elisef the news. It was very odd to accept that I was a subject of interest, but I could not begrudge it today; I was in Solitude to be seen, after all.

The Palace was as it had been that day so long ago. Elegant lines, neat tiles, tended plants. The deathbells were gone; in their place were more clusters of snowberries, thick with fruit, for it was that time of year.

The sense of sameness continued. I ascended to the left of the indoor garden, and alighting each step brought forward a memory of walking the stairs with father with my lute strapped to my back, humming _Matthild_. As I glanced across the reception room, taking in the stewards and Thanes and Jarl Elisef, all busy in their own way, my eyes drifted to the empty throne beside the former High Queen's. I recalled how handsome, how reasonable the High King had been, even in the moments before his murder.

I saw it all, but I did not lose myself to the memories. As with Roggvir; it was horrible. But it was past. And this reminder, while somewhat chilling, set my mind into focus. I had a job to do. I glanced over the tables and chairs set out for the nobles and Thanes, searching for the woman I was to imitate in a few days time. Lady Vittoria Vici _was_ there – standing by a tall plant holding a goblet, in conversation with Thane Bryling.

In the corner of my eye, I caught the tall and stocky Falk Firebeard bustling toward Farkas and I, and casually glanced away from the Emperor's cousin, meeting his welcoming eyes with a smile.

"Lady Dragonborn," the Jarl's steward greeted in an undertone; regardless, I felt a number of eyes in the room turn toward us, including Lady Vici's.

"We received word of your arrival in Solitude a mere hour ago. The Jarl hoped you would call," he offered his elbow. "She is in audience at this very moment, as you can see – but if you and your shield-brother would care to wait?"

So, they already knew everything about us, of course. Falling into the role a _little_ too easily, I accepted his assistance with thanks; let him lead me to the tables.

Farkas trailed behind silently. Once I was seated and Firebeard had pressed a delicate goblet of something onto me, Farkas assumed a very Vilkas-like, rigid position beside my chair and crossed his arms.

I sipped the drink – sweet, bubbly white wine – and smiled up to my shield-brother. I could not outright tell him to relax, for we were under the observing eye of practically everybody in the room, but I hoped that my actions would convey as much. "Help yourself, Farkas," I motioned toward the tables, overflowing with pickled delicacies and cold meats. "Little different to the mead hall, hey?" I sighed.

Farkas' arms remained crossed, but he tilted his head, shaking it and letting a half-smile out. "Just a little."

I could almost _feel_ our observers relax at the gesture, for it softened his expression considerably. Within moments, the Jarl's Housecarl, a man by the name of Bolgeir, was standing before me. I sat straighter as I glanced up to him in confusion.

"Lady Dragonborn," he dipped his head respectfully; his wiry red hair brushed his weathered cheeks. It was then that I recalled with a pang that he had been one of father's friends. "It warms my heart to see you back in Solitude. We have been too long without a Passero in these halls."

Standing to meet him, I smiled more genuinely. I had not missed Solitude, but I could not be rude about it. "That's very kind of you, Sir Bolgeir. I am afraid that our visit is fleeting; I must return to Whiterun, and then the Greybeards, at the end of the week."

He nodded knowingly, lifting his honey-brown eyes to mine. "I would expect no less from you," he acknowledged. "Samuel always-"

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd come back to us," Bolgeir was cut off abruptly by the arrival of Thane Erikur. The scruffy Thane continued heartily; "Heard you're a Thane yourself now, to _Balgruuf_? Off you pop now, Bolgeir, the Lady and I are talking," he added as an afterthought, without even sparing a glance for the Housecarl.

The man had never spoken to me in my _life_ to be this familiar. "Lord Erikur," I greeted with a curt nod, blinking in surprise. "Um, yes. That's right. Thane of Whiterun, these past months."

"Excuse me, my Lady," Bolgeir bowed his head and retreated, casting Erikur a dark, sideways glance as he left.

I opened my mouth to call after him, but Thane Erikur sidestepped into the space the Housecarl had occupied, in my direct line of sight as he lifted his tankard toward me. "I was relieved to hear that _someone_ was looking out for you," he admitted, motioning for me to take my seat again.

Biting my tongue, I sat, for in _this_ room, he outranked me. Thane Erikur settled into the chair beside me; tilted his knees toward me. To my left, I could feel the desire to hit the presumptuous man rolling off Farkas.

"Now, tell me Celeste – whatever happened to that _salacious_ sister of yours?" he leaned over, arching an eyebrow conspiratorially at me - as though she was our _private joke_.

Perhaps it was my own desire to clobber him that I was feeling. I was relieved that Sir Bolgeir _had_ left, before _that_ had been said. Arching an eyebrow, I opened my mouth to reply, but I was at a loss for words in my native tongue.

"Word has it the little minx has been warming the enemy's bed for _quite_ some time now," he shook his head as his eyes widened. "Perhaps it's best that your father didn't survive, to be faced with _that_ knowledge."

Farkas stepped into my field of view; his intentions plain – though Erikur seemed none the wiser. I grabbed Farkas' arm, gripping tightly to stop him as my jaw clenched. "I am unaware of such matters," I managed tightly.

"Really Erikur, that was out of line," more bodies joined us, female this time, and I tore my focus from the man I wanted to _Fus_ into Oblivion, and looked into the eyes of the Emperor's cousin. She was standing beside Thane Bryling, tall and haughty – it had been Bryling who had spoken.

Thane Erikur sat back, resting his arm along the back of his chair as he crossed a foot over his knee. "I see no point in equivocating the truth amongst our peers, Bryling," he sipped from his tankard. "But certainly – play games if you must," he waggled his fingers at her.

She cast Erikur a reproachful, unimpressed look. "I think you will find Lord Erikur too deep in his cups for civil conversation today, Lady Dragonborn," Thane Bryling murmured pointedly, then turned her sharp eyes to me. "Would you care to join us?"

"Thank you," I stood hastily, releasing Farkas in the process, opting _not_ to say goodbye, or even look back.

"A wise decision," Lady Vici clipped.

They turned away; Bryling motioned for me to follow. I did, and Farkas followed me. My eyes were on the Emperor's cousin as we walked and ignored Thane Erikur's mutters behind our backs.

I was not here to socialise; I was here to _observe_. I pushed my indignation into the pit I had reserved for comments such as his, and made myself take in how Lady Vici walked and held herself. The woman was in her mid-twenties, but dressed as though she was in her forties in a horrible green thing that hung on her thin body like a sack, layered with a darker green overcoat; expensive, but ugly enough to be emerging fashion. I hoped that it wouldn't catch on. Her hair had been recently trimmed – the ends were too sharp – and a gold comb held most of the dark curls up from her shoulders and back from her face. There was gold jewellery – lots of it – _far_ too much to be decent – pendants and earrings and cuffs around her wrists and upper arms. The lanterns played with the enormous diamond on her finger as her hand moved back and forth.

I stored all of this information for later use as the two women stopped by the tall plant they had been talking beside when I had arrived. I met them both with a grateful smile.

Thane Bryling offered me one in return, though it was largely guarded. "Lady Vici was telling me about the flowers she is having arranged for her wedding this coming Sun's Dawn."

With feigned interest, I turned toward the woman. "I would love to hear about them."

"Yes; my little Bosmeri florist is arranging the designs as we speak," the Emperor's cousin seemed to chew her words. I wondered if it was a by-product of speaking through lips that never seemed to fully open? I could emulate that if I bit my cheeks while I spoke, surely – but perhaps the Alteration spell would help with that.

Lady Vici droned on about her wedding, and Thane Bryling and I let her. I sent a silent thank you to the Thane for unwittingly giving me this opportunity to monitor the woman I would have to become.

After ten minutes of talk about flowers, Thane Bryling _hmmed_ in consideration. "It is certainly going to be a sight to behold," she turned toward me. "And what of you, Lady Dragonborn? Word has it that you are betrothed to a soldier in the Legion."

"Um - yes," I stood to attention, wondering why – when – _how_ – this had become common knowledge? Had Jarl Balgruuf spread the word – or perhaps the Legion? "Yes, that's right."

"Quite the little love story, from what I hear," Thane Bryling's eyes twinkled. "The Dragonborn and the Praefect. _Very_ romantic."

"Oh - really?" I baulked, unable to suppress a flush.

Lady Vici pursed her lips. "Hmm, yes but _quite_ a step down for you, my dear," she arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps if he makes General before you wed – then it wouldn't be _quite_ so far a fall from graceful society."

"Perhaps they are in love, Tori," Thane Bryling responded through a smirk over the top of her goblet. "We aren't all fortunate enough to have our husbands arranged for us by our parents," she sipped.

I expected Lady Vici to turn defensive, but she surprised me – glancing lazily to the Thane as she huffed a haughty, largely cheerless laugh. "Oh, my dear Bry – I have offered to introduce you Unmid _several_ times now. Just _imagine_ how pleasant it would be for us _both_ to reside in Riften upon my marriage. Why, such a connection would make us sisters."

Bryling winked knowingly at Lady Vici, tittering a laugh. "I am _quite_ contented with my prospects in Solitude, thank you," she flickered a hasty glance over my shoulder; her eyes sparkling with some deep-seated secret.

 _Interesting,_ I mused, watching the exchange. Lady Vici was more nuanced than I had thought.

"Lady Dragonborn?" Falk Firebeard appeared by my side, nodding a brief hello to the other women. "The Jarl will see you now."

I thought I caught a muttered _thank the Gods_ from Farkas, but when I glanced to him he was as expressionless as before.

"It was _lovely_ talking to you," Thane Bryling said in farewell.

Taking my leave and depositing my goblet on a nearby table, I followed the Jarl's steward to the front of the audience chamber. I had learned much more than I could have hoped during the brief exchange. Vittoria Vici - _Tori?!_ \- was snooty and reserved, but there was a kind of forgiving humour there amongst those she was familiar with. There was even _fondness_.

"Celeste Passero, my Jarl," Falk announced me.

I was more grateful than he could have known that he had left off the string of accolades. Glancing up to the woman who had been High Queen of Skyrim, I belatedly recalled that I needed to curtsy, and did so as I roughly pushed my study of Vittoria Vici aside. In the corner of my eye, Farkas took a knee and lowered his head, unprompted.

"Miss Passero," the Jarl addressed in her authoritative tones. "I am pleased you came, given that this is probably the last place in Skyrim you wish to be."

I glanced up to her as a sudden empathy washed through me. She was young for any position of power – only twenty-four – and unlike Delphine's authority; battle-hardened and paranoid, Elisef's was brimming with anxiety.

I smiled hopefully at her. "I am sorry for staying away as long as I did."

"No apology necessary," she motioned for me to come forward; her crystalline blue eyes shone with interest as they flickered to my shield-brother, then back to me. "I am well aware that you have not been idle, or in any position to return. Who is your friend?"

Falk stepped forward hurriedly. "Apologies, my Jarl. Farkas of the Companions," he murmured.

"Of course," Jarl Elisef sat straighter, sending my shield-brother what looked like a practised smile. "Famously attracted to Whiterun, as well. I must ask Balgruuf what he puts in the water," her voice still wavered, but it was clear that she was trying to be nice. "You are welcome in my court any time you please, Companion."

"Thanks," Farkas sounded a little... _choked._

I flashed him a curious look. He was grinning, his expression somewhere between adoring and goofy with his silvery eyes locked on the pretty young Jarl before him.

 _Okay, down boy_. I swallowed my amusement as I glanced back to Jarl Elisef. He was not the first man to be captivated by her beauty, and he wouldn't be the last.

Her duty to my companion done, the Jarl turned her attention back to me. "You both are, for the duration of your stay in Solitude," she added, clearing her throat. "As Thane of Whiterun it is your right," she acknowledged, "but as daughter of my late husband's trusted Thane, it is my pleasure."

I expressed my gratitude openly, for I had hoped that she would offer. I intended on spending as much time as I could in her court over the next three days, to continue observing Vittoria Vici.

Our audience, under the judging eyes of the entire court, proceeded as propriety dictated. The Jarl asked several questions. The dragon situation dominated, and I answered her as truthfully as a public audience allowed. I made it known that I was visiting Solitude for research purposes, and would be leaving by week's end.

After minutes of conversation, Jarl Elisef seemed satisfied and sat back in her throne, more relaxed than I had ever perceived her to be. "If your research allows it, I would have a dinner in your honour tonight," without waiting for my response, she turned to Falk. "Prepare invitations for Aldis and Caesennius; Rikke too, if she has returned from her mission. They may bring five of their units, each."

Turning back to me as her steward bowed and retreated, she added with a small smile on her lips. "I am certain that the very sight of you at my table will boost morale, given the regretful event this morning."

Ordinarily, I would have spun some gracious excuse to decline; despite her good intentions, I was not a child, or a...a pet, to be brought out at parties to perform...

 _Well_. Not unless I was being _paid_ to perform. Shaking off my growing amusement – at _myself_ this time – I dipped my head. She had asked me to be her _guest_ , not her bard – and I would be able to paint a purer picture of Lady Vici with that time. "It would be my honour."

Once the arrangements had been finalised, Farkas and I took our leave. It would take a while to prepare for a dinner at the Palace, and I felt a need to withdraw from the scrutiny of the other members of the court for a time; their intensity was stifling.

Once clear of the gardens, I let out a shuddering breath and glanced Farkas' way. "You okay?"

Farkas laughed – low and easy. "I'm great. You?"

Recalling his dewy expression when Elisef had spoken to him, I smirked. "Yes. You _did_ seem to enjoy yourself," I teased.

He cast me an unashamed grin. "She's _very_ pretty, and so... _pure_ ," he turned his eyes to the heavens.

I couldn't mask my smile now. "They don't call her _the fair_ for nothing," I told him in a sing-song voice.

"You know she wants you to be her friend, right?" he added in a knowing rumble. "She's very lonely. Misses her husband a lot. But, she likes you. Wants you to like her."

"I do like her," I replied truthfully, thoughtfully. I had understood Jarl Elisef wanted _something_ from me, but I had not considered it might be social in nature when she was surrounded by so many people. I turned back to the road, pondering this, and replied as we by-passed the Bard's College. "She's had a lot of responsibility thrust upon her, and nobody truly believes she's capable of meeting it," I admitted quietly, glancing around the courtyard idly. Nobody was there – and given the time of afternoon, my colleagues would be in the middle of class. "Pressure without trust breeds loneliness, no matter how many people flit in and out of your life."

"Yeah," Farkas persisted. "But she's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. Loyal, and clever. Reminds me of someone," he smirked.

"Know her that well already, hmm?" I swatted his arm with a laugh. "Remember why we're here, brother."

He grunted in annoyance, glancing back to the road. "Trying my best to forget," he grumbled. "Don't like the idea of you being _her_. It won't end well."

"Trust me," I gave him a scathing look, after his talk on capabilities. "I have been _trained_ to perform. I can do this," I added in murmur.

Because if I wanted to get into the Thalmor Embassy – it wasn't as though I had much of a choice.

–

Throughout dinner and for most of the next day, I remained by Jarl Elisef's side with Farkas as my guest. I had suggested we buy him some clothes fit for court but the Companion refused to wear anything but his armour, mumbling some excuse about fancy stuff being itchy. I gave up the cause for lost, understanding finally that it was a matter of pride when Jarl Elisef complimented him on wearing Skyforge steel so well during our first dinner.

Her concessions were many and friendly, and I took her openness to mean that Farkas had been correct; she _wanted_ me to like her – perhaps even wanted a friend. I was ever-conscious that I would be leaving Solitude within the week, but I saw no reason to be bound by the cold, haughty propriety many of the other courtiers maintained in Elisef's presence, when she was so in want of companionship. And honestly, it was nice to laugh and talk with someone close to my own age, who understood what it was to have ones purpose in life whipped away and changed forever.

There was a second dinner to attend on our second night, but I stepped out of the inn on my own. I walked the chilly but familiar streets at dusk, wearing a new, pale-blue gown with my hair looped elegantly around my head.

Farkas stayed at the Skeever to make contact with Delphine's Malborn on my behalf, and had been sulky and less talkative than ever all afternoon. He didn't like being left behind – and not only because it was another reminder of our true purpose here. He wanted to come with me; wanted to see _her_ again.

While I approached dinner with my head full of fond amusement over the teasing opportunities Farkas was _openly_ giving me, I had been sufficiently distracted from his crush by the time I left the Palace late that night.

"She's asked me to be her _Thane_ ," I burst as I hurried into our room, shrugging off my cape and hanging it on the hook behind the door.

"Celeste, you're back-" Farkas greeted hastily – there was a shuffle of boots as he rose.

"I know, I can't possibly accept," I replied to the door, _thunk_ ing my head against it, squeezing my eyes closed. "I will be of no use to her as Thane. But I don't want to...disappoint her," I turned around. "What should I-?"

The question died in my throat; my eyes widened as I realised that Farkas was not alone. My shield-brother stood where I knew he would be – by the window. But standing between us, rising from a chair, was-

"By the Gods," Hadvar whispered; his eyes misted as they flickered over me.

My heart swelled with affection – I was sure he hadn't realised he'd spoken _._

"I mean," he winced. "Um. Hello," he smiled tentatively.

The misgivings I felt over becoming Elisef's Thane scattered. _He_ was here, somehow Hadvar was here, and he was safe, and nothing that had occurred at the Blue Palace, or anywhere else, mattered any more.

" _How_?" was all I managed to articulate as I hurried forward.

He lifted his hands uncertainly as I drew nearer. His hesitance; his faraway stare made me all too conscious of my finery. It had made him so doubtful at Dragonsreach...for a time. What was going through his mind now?

"I missed you so much," I threw my arms around his neck, gasping into his shoulder as the weeks of pent-up yearning crashed over me.

With a relieved sigh, Hadvar's arms encircled me. "Likewise," burying his nose in my hair, he took a deep, satisfied breath.

"Right," Farkas grumbled. His footfalls were heavy as he stalked away. "I need a drink."

"Farkas – sorry," I glanced over my shoulder. "You don't have to _leave_ -"

"Yeah," Farkas cut me off with an amused rumble. "Yeah, I do. Tell Hadvar why we're in Solitude, when you're done reuniting, okay?" he added pointedly.

My chest flipped as he clicked the door closed behind him. I closed my eyes in regret; resettled on Hadvar's chest. _Damnit_. Farkas _knew_ Hadvar would talk me out of going to the Embassy.

"You okay?" Hadvar asked quietly. "You're...shaking."

I leant back to tell him about the Embassy, but got stuck trying to convince myself that this wasn't a dream. "I can't believe you're here," I admitted. "When you weren't in Whiterun, I feared Tullius had sent you to the back of beyond, and I might never see you again."

"Well, we've both been to the beyond, in the past weeks," Hadvar eased back, brushing my arms gently. "But, we're together now." he glanced over me. "Gods, look at you," he murmured longingly. "I can hardly breathe."

Biting my bottom lip to suppress a sudden grin, I reached for something to say. "Are you in Solitude for long?"

He shook his head; faltered, blinking as he looked away, as though to clear his head. "Not really. There's a...thing. Work thing. Not important," he smiled reassuringly.

I measured his reaction closely. "Have you...been talking to Farkas?"

His brows furrowed and he eased back a little more. "For five minutes, before you arrived. I wanted to go to the Palace the moment they told me you were in Solitude," he confessed, puffing out an overwhelmed breath of air, "but I...wasn't certain it would be...appropriate," he met my eyes, quietly cautious.

My heart ached with fondness at his _adorable_ expression and the glow in my chest thrummed. "That's a shame," I pouted. "Jarl Elisef is eager to meet you," I told him openly, eyes sparkling. I had talked enough of Hadvar in the past two days that she actually _was_. "But, half the court believe my _Legion sweetheart_ ," I lifted my eyebrows, "is a figment of my imagination, devised to ward off suitors. We might have danced in Elisef's ballroom and put the rumours to rest."

Hadvar's hand on my waist tightened as he chuckled; a warm sound that reached his relief-filled eyes. "You too, hey?" he murmured, lifting a hand to my cheek, brushing a fallen curl aside as wonder-filled stormy-grey tracked his movements. "When I talk of you, I'm fairly sure they chalk it up to a knock on the head at Helgen."

"Mm," I hummed, leaning into his touch. He had talked about me? The idea warmed me. "That would explain a lot. It must have been quite a knock, to put up with so much uncertainty," I teased. "Was it the bear?"

He drew closer, laughing softly. " _You_ are the _least_ uncertain part of my life."

My eyes danced open. "Likewise," I agreed, biting my lip again to temper my glee.

His eyes darted furtively to my mouth, then back again, and the amusement left his eyes. When he spoke, he was breathless; "Celeste, I know – our lives are ridiculous and, I understand if _everything_ is too much after Riverwood, and High Hrothgar, but – I _dream_ about these lips," his words brushed them; his nose caressed my cheek. "May I at least...?" he whispered earnestly.

Why was he _asking_? With a definitive noise of assent, I leaned against him and captured his lips, securing my arms around his neck.

With a surprised sound, he grabbed my hips; guided me back step by step while we kissed. Within moments there was a _clunk_ as his arm met a solid surface. I leaned back, pressed against wood and something softer; something that smelled of fresh air and hearthfire smoke. A quick glance back revealed – I was between Hadvar and my cape – we were at the door. Wordlessly, Hadvar leaned up, briefly focussed elsewhere, and I searched his eyes as I caught my breath.

 _Click_.

"That's better," Hadvar smiled contentedly as he leaned back down; his arm pressed to the door above me. "No interruptions," he descended, brushing his nose against my cheek so I would tilt my head. "I mean – if you want-" he rumbled into my ear; hand flexing on my waist. "If you just want to kiss, I'm _more_ than fine with that-"

I giggled at his scratchy stubble tickling my cheek – and the question he was so sweetly dodging around. Standing on my toes, nerves shot through me as I whispered onto the shell of his ear; "How fast can you get me out of this dress?"

With a shuddering, relieved laugh his hands fell to my hips again and he took a step back, assessing the challenge. "How much do you like it?" his fingers closed around the skirt; tugged me to him.

"It's brand new," I flushed, landing against him. It was a pleasant place to be; I brushed his plated chest – _this armour is new_ – riddled with anticipation and wanting the barrier removed. He was really _here_ , and we were really _alone_. He seemed a little trepidatious about my wants and needs, but there was no awkwardness; no regret. Just the same joy, the same _love_ that there had always been.

"In that case, a proposal, Lady Dragonborn," Hadvar teased in a lower, captivating timbre, releasing the skirt. His hands danced around my neck to work slowly, carefully, some might say _torturously_ , at the buttons running down my spine.

My eyes drifted up, entranced by the brush of his fingertips on the back of my neck, his voice - everything. "Proposal?" I whispered, swallowing.

The cheekiness shifted and he nodded slowly; his eyes dark with desire. He continued to pick away at my buttons as he whispered; "Help me out of my armour first, and the dress _might_ survive."

I was already at work, unlacing the ties running down the side of the chest plate eagerly. "You had a head start," I whined, but it changed into a gasp as he eased my dress over my shoulder and leant down to kiss my collarbone. "And – ah, you keep distracting me," I laughed breathily.

"Maybe I want you to win," he murmured as his lips smoothed across my neck, along my throat, under my ear. "You do look _incredible_ in it."

I gave up on the armour and drew him down for a kiss; deep and hungry, but brief. "Maybe I'm not in love with this dress after all," I breathed.

"Thank the _Divines,_ " Hadvar groaned in relief, closing his arms and lifting. I let out a small squeak of surprise as he carried me to the bed.

I had not thought it possible that anything could eclipse our first time together, but I was wrong. I was new to this dance, but I was eager to be guided and perfect the steps with my doting partner. This time, I was not so overcome by the unfamiliarity of the act, and had been able to focus more on Hadvar – on his enjoyment, _our_ enjoyment. While I had been largely inarticulate, my voice had not entirely fled, and I had felt more like a participant than a willing bystander. Moving together had been so relaxed; so natural – so full of laughter and longing, and love.

After, as the contentment settled over us and we caught our breaths, he gathered me in his arms and we just lay in silence as he trailed his hand up and down my back. I shivered at the sensation, as my mind chorused a truth I had often thought; _he is my home_.

With a lazy smile, my fingers dusted over his chest, picking up the ring slung around his neck. "I like that you wear it," I murmured, inspecting my family's crest. "It...feels right," I added, dimly aware that I was barely making sense.

He pressed his lips to the top of my head. "Remind me tomorrow, okay love?" he breathed tiredly into my hair.

"Of what?" I glanced back, trying to meet his eyes but unwilling to lift my head too far from the crook of his arm.

I caught his sleepy, secretive smile. "Just – remind me?" he closed his eyes, shuffling and tightening his hold.

He was almost asleep. With a final squeeze to the Passero seal; it _belonged_ with him; I released it and settled on his chest, sighing in satisfaciton as I closed my eyes and let the blissful haziness take hold.

–

When I woke early the next morning and realised that he was really here, naked in bed beside me, I couldn't suppress my giddy grin. The sun's first rays met the window pane, melting the frost and lighting up the lazily-drifting dust motes; a promise of another fine, cool day to come.

For a time I let myself bask in the warm contentment of Hadvar's arms. I glanced up to look at him; toyed with the idea of waking him up before the rest of the world, but as I took in his relaxed features I found that I didn't want to disturb his peace. Sigrid had told me that he threw himself into his work to deal with loss. I had no idea what that work entailed, exactly – but I wagered that he had found little rest since we had parted in Riverwood those weeks ago.

With a gentle nudge to my mind, I was reminded of the day. _The Thalmor party_. I frowned at myself. In a few hours, we would meet Delphine, and I would become Vittoria Vici. How did Delphine plan on intercepting the real Lady Vici? I could only guess and hope that it would work, for she had told me naught. Farkas had met with Malborn and –

 _Farkas_. Where was he? I mean – he didn't need to sleep, but – I hadn't even asked him how the meeting had gone.

I had to find him – surely, he would be in the bar – but I couldn't bear the thought of Hadvar waking to find me gone. I would _have_ to rouse him.

Fighting every instinct to remain where I was, I leant up and stared at him, wondering how to proceed? He frowned in his sleep, shuffling closer; his hand brushed over the rise of my hip and his fingers closed in a determined, possessive grip that sent a thrill through me. I realised that he had felt me move – the loss of warmth, if nothing else – but also that he was waking. Before he did, I pressed my lips to his, and threaded my fingers through his hair. "Hadvar," I whispered over his lips.

"Mm," he stirred; his eyelashes fluttered. I smiled softly as he blinked, focussed on me, and returned my smile. "I could get used to this," he murmured, tilting his head as he chased my lips.

The kiss was sweet, but I _could not_ allow him to distract me. My smile turned into a giggle as I pressed my palm to his chest, to ease him back onto the pillow. "Stay here a moment?" I hushed. "I'm going to find Farkas," I flushed around my smile; "make sure he's not angry about kicking him out of our room."

"Oh," Hadvar's eyes widened. Despite my hand, he propped himself up on his elbows, swallowing thickly as he nodded toward the door. "I'll go with you. After all, it's my fault."

"No need," I urged, appreciatively taking in his dishevelled appearance. "Relax. I rather enjoy the idea of coming back to you in my bed, don't you?"

Hadvar's eyes flickered to mine as he huffed a laugh. "Not if you have Farkas with you," he murmured pointedly.

True – and it was very likely that I would. I hadn't thought that far ahead. With a jesting roll to my eyes, I turned, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Spoilsport," I muttered.

With a good-natured chuckle, he sat up, brushing my shoulder with his lips and guiding his hand across my back, down my waist, pushing away the furs and sheets. My ring – _his_ , it was his now – bumped against my arm as he leaned closer, kissing his way along my neck; his mouth warm and his voice low. "Don't be like that..."

Now I _knew_ he was trying to distract me, and oh, I _wanted_ him to, but I couldn't shake my guilt over Farkas off. Suppressing a groan, I leaned away from his questing mouth, smiling apologetically. "Let's make sure Farkas is okay first," without realising, my hand rose to brush his cheek. "There's much to do today," I murmured, distracted by the brightness, the fondness I found in his gaze.

He leaned into my touch; closed his eyes; kissed my palm, then nodded with a weighty sigh.

Shifting to the dresser I had stored my clothes in, I hurriedly shrugged on underwear and a long, simple dress that I had taken to wearing around the inn, conscious of Hadvar's eyes on my movements all the while. It was...different, but not unpleasant, to think that he _liked_ looking at me. After a moment, he rose silently, located his trousers, then collected the rest of his clothes and armour, strewn haphazardly around the bed.

I had to turn away so I wouldn't laugh as the memory of the previous night sent a giddy flush to my cheeks. I scrubbed my face with water from the basin on the dresser, then tugged my hair back into a quick plait.

"Where do you think he'll be?"

"I don't know," I reached out, eyes roaming appreciatively for the brief moment before he pulled a tunic over his head and tugged it down. Seeing my pout, he laughed and grasped my outstretched hand.

"Maybe he rented another room?" Hadvar asked hopefully, adjusting so his fingers laced between mine.

Smiling warmly at the feel – he _fit_ – I nodded as we made for the door. "Or, maybe he never left the bar?"

He hadn't. It was early enough that Farkas and the publican, Corpulus, were the only occupants of the lower levels.

The barkeep looked up first and chuckled at the sight of us, shaking his head as he went back to polishing glasses.

Glancing hastily away – well, _this_ fresh bit of gossip would be circulated throughout the city by lunchtime – I found Farkas sitting alone at a table in the main dining area. On the table before him was a cluster of mead bottles, but not as many as I thought there might have been after a whole night of drinking. I knew my shield-brother noticed our arrival – but he remained focussed on a parchment before him, scratching at it with a look of concentration on his face.

"Good morning," I greeted brightly.

Farkas cast me a knowing smirk. "Is, isn't it?"

"Buy you breakfast?" I pressed on, glancing over his shoulder to see what he was working on. It was odd to see him with a quill in his hand, but I wasn't about to question it.

"Sure," Farkas sat back with a sigh, nodding toward what was unmistakably a letter. "Figured it was time to start writing to Vilkas, since you're so busy," he explained.

"Oh," I was pleasantly surprised, and sent him an endearing smile. "He'll like that."

"Yeah," Farkas crossed his arms, glancing up again. "Got a lot to tell him. Like what's supposed to happen tonight. You told Hadvar yet?" he threw a nod his way.

He was not going to let it drop, was he? I couldn't be cross with Farkas – he had never been happy with this plan – and I closed my eyes to reign back a clipped response.

Hadvar squeezed my hand. "Tonight?" he laughed uncertainly. "What happens tonight?"

"Not really the time or the place," I murmured, casting Farkas a small, conceding nod. "I'll order breakfast. We can eat in our room."

"Sure," Farkas started to pack up the letter to his brother.

I left him to it and ordered our food.

Our hands drifted apart once Hadvar and I reached the room. He shifted to the window, peering outside with a distracted look on his face. He was tensing up – and I couldn't blame him, but I was hesitant to talk about the Thalmor infiltration without Farkas, because he could alert us if other ears drew too near.

"Sorry," I cursed, joining him by the window. I reached for his hand; brushed my fingers over his. "I...forgot all about it. Farkas doesn't like what's going on," I admitted.

Hadvar was staring at our joined hands, and huffed a small, humourless laugh. After a pause, he said quietly; "Must be something big, to worry Farkas."

"It's not _that_ bad-," I insisted hastily.

The door clicked open; Hadvar and I looked up.

It was Farkas, writing materials in hand. "Yes, it is, and you know it," he grumbled.

"Farkas," I sighed plaintively. "How did the meeting go last night?"

Farkas stalked to where his gear was stowed. "Malborn's a right coward," he said, stuffing his writing materials into his bag. "He'll be no good to you in there. Wants you to send the weapons you'll need to him before two today," he turned back to us and shook his head, as though trying to dislodge water from his ear. "None of this feels right, Celeste. It's gonna end bad."

Hadvar's hand clutched mine. "In _where_?" he whispered, strained. With a gentle tug, he urged me to face him. "Please. Whatever it is you have to do, I can help."

As I had expected, I found worry in his eyes, but there was also something I hadn't – a deep-seated fury directed at those in my path.

With an apologetic wince, I told him. "I'm going to the Thalmor Embassy tonight to extract information about the rise of the dragons, and free my sister."

His eyes widened; he glanced me up and down fearfully. "You're... _joking_?" he uttered.

"Tell him the rest," Farkas droned in warning.

"Yes all right," I shot him a grumpy look, took a deep breath and faced Hadvar again. "I'm to be disguised as Vittoria Vici."

Hadvar ran an agitated hand through his hair. "This is why you're in Solitude? To go to Elenwen's reception – for your _sister_?"

"Something like that," I hissed quickly, glancing down; I couldn't bear to keep looking into those concerned, furious eyes that had shown me such love not an hour earlier. "And I _know_ , Giselle is an enemy of the Legion but – they _took_ her Hadvar, and for all her crimes she needs to be put on trial, not disappeared and _tortured_ -"

Fingers were on my chin, lifting gently. I looked up, wary of what I would find - but _he_ was back - his warmth and support – and an oddly-placed smug secrecy.

For a second, while I stared, I wondered what Farkas was picking up from him, because he was very suddenly _far_ too calm.

"Why are you smiling?" I trembled. "The plan is crazy," I conceded in a shaky whisper.

"Beyond getting you into the Embassy, there _is_ no plan," Farkas added gruffly.

"I'm smiling...because I _can_ help you," Hadvar murmured around a smile that sent hope straight to my chest. The hand on my chin drifted and he clasped my cheek tenderly. "It seems we've been instructed to go to the same party, Lady Dragonborn," his warm smile turned into a grin. "Want to be my plus one?"

I openly gaped. "Your thing is the Thalmor thing?" I spluttered.

Farkas barked a laugh from across the room. "I already like his plan," he called out, striding toward the door. "Heads up," he added in a quieter tone.

I clasped my mouth shut as Corpulus brought in a tray brimming with baked apples, oats, milk, sausages, eggs and tea.

Hadvar wrapped himself around me as the publican worked on setting it all out on the table beside us. "We should go together," he murmured into my hair. "We can share that dance," he hushed. "Put the rumours to rest, just like you want."

"I...would love that," I lay my hands on his chest; lifted my eyes to him desperately, searching for words I could say in the publican's presence. Delphine's insane plan had just been flipped on its head and my mind was reeling. "But...won't you be working? I don't want to be left at a party on my own."

"For a time," he half-smiled. "The meeting won't take all night," his eyes softened. "There'll be plenty of time for...us."

"There you are, breakfast is served," the Imperial stood back, giving the table a satisfied nod before he glanced up to Hadvar and I.

"Great," Farkas took a seat and helped himself.

"Off to the party at the Embassy tonight, hey?" he asked lightly. "Finally makes sense. You've had me scratching my head since you arrived, Lady Dragonborn."

Somehow, I managed a few minutes of small talk with the publican and Hadvar to support this new scheme, and once the Imperial man left, I crumpled against Hadvar's chest and covered my face with my hands.

"You are forgetting why I am going in," I whispered urgently. "If I can't find Delphine's proof and get to Giselle, there's no point-"

"I haven't forgotten," Hadvar cut in with quiet confidence. When I faltered, then glanced up in inquiry, he took a step back and motioned toward the table. "Hungry?"

I hit his arm as my nerves finally bubbled out of me. "No, I'm not!" I laughed incredulously.

"All right, all right," Hadvar fended me off, his eyes dancing with merriment. "The Third Emissary has an office in the heart of the Embassy."

I frowned. "You know this because...?"

" _Because_ ," he lifted his brows pointedly as he tugged out a chair for me, "I was shown a map. Tullius doesn't like us going within ten miles of the Thalmor without a full briefing. Rulindil's office is on the ground level of Elenwen's solar and that's where we'll take our meeting."

"Okay," I accepted, sitting. A thread of unease wound tight around my throat; the General had asked him to walk into the heart of what was considered Thalmor _territory_ in Skyrim. Why?

 _We're allies,_ I had to remind myself. "You think this...Rulindil will be forthcoming with information about the dragons?" I tried. "Or – I could _talk_ him into freeing Giselle?" I added quickly.

"Not exactly," Hadvar shook his head as he pushed my chair in for me. "Probably best we don't mention either to him directly. But, I'm sure once we're there, we'll find a way."

I glanced over my shoulder at him, astonished. "Are you, Praefect Reidarrson, suggesting that we _improvise_ the _Thalmor Embassy_?"

"In a sense," he half-smiled as he took a seat beside me and reached for a plate. "Maybe I've been hanging around you for too long."

My eyes flickered to Farkas, who was half-way through a pile of eggs. "And you're okay with this?"

"I'm better with this than Delphine's plan," Farkas grinned and jabbed his fork toward Hadvar. "He won't let you do anything stupid."

Both Farkas' good spirits, and Hadvar's confidence – when I had expected this conversation to end _badly_ – gave me strength, and I found myself grinning back at Hadvar. "All right. It's a date."

–

After breakfast, Farkas got ready to meet Delphine to tell her of the change in plan. A part of me wished I could be there to see the look on her face when Farkas explained how the night was going to proceed, and that we no longer needed her phoney papers or Alteration spell.

But a much fiercer part of me wasn't willing to leave Hadvar's side, particularly now that I had an excuse to be with him, for whatever time our mad lives allowed. A whole _day_ to ourselves in Solitude, and then the reception together. Albeit I felt an _enormous_ amount of uncertainty over what I might find, or not find there. Hadvar's presence, and knowing he would be with me all the way, somehow made the enormous task surmountable.

We took our time leaving the sanctuary of our room in the Skeever, and eventually dressed more suitably; he in his armour and I in a dress fit for court. We wound our way to the Blue Palace; Jarl Elisef was expecting me, but I knew that news of Hadvar's arrival in Solitude would have reached her, so she would understand my lateness.

"Do you think you'll accept her offer?" Hadvar asked warmly, ignoring the curious glances of those milling in the marketplace as we bypassed the well.

"I'm not sure it would be right," I admitted with a frown, recalling how I had neglected my duty to Jarl Balgruuf when I had first been made his Thane, and how it had nearly cost me his favour. "What good is a Thane who is never there for her Jarl?"

Hadvar squeezed my arm supportively where it was linked with his. "She is as aware of your responsibilities as the next person," he reasoned quietly. "Maybe she's offering as a token of her support for you?"

With a flush of guilt, I realised - he was right. That was probably _exactly_ why she had asked me to become her Thane.

"Then... _oh_ ," my eyes widened as I followed the theory through. "Acceptance will be seen a sign of my faith in _her_ ," I turned to face him, grinning in appreciation. He had determined a logical reason where I had only panicked about disappointing her. "You are _amazing_ ," I whispered, standing on my toes and winding my arms around his neck.

There were questions in his eyes, but he said nothing until I'd retreated from a soft, chaste kiss.

"I'm not complaining," he murmured on my mouth, "but – what?"

"That mind of yours," I explained, leaning back to meet his eyes; mine glowed with pride. "I am very much in love with it," I declared.

"That's a relief," he half-smiled, hands drifting down to settle on my waist. "I was worried you only wanted me for my body."

A quiet laugh burst from me, and he joined in, turning back to the road. "Come on. Can't keep the Jarl waiting," he sighed dramatically.

I pouted, accepting his outstretched hand, falling into step as our fingers laced together.

"I think I will accept her," I answered finally, as we bypassed the Bard's College. It was too early for students; classes wouldn't begin for over an hour yet. "Thane of Haafingar," I mused idly as my eyes drifted around the courtyard. I had often sat there before school, playing my lute or reading while I waited for my friends to arrive. An image of a younger me sitting on the bench seat by the wall formed in my mind – naïve and carefree, absorbed in my music while I strummed my beautiful lute.

 _Yes. Thane of Haafingar. Just like father._

I didn't realise I'd stopped, or that I was staring at the empty bench seat until I felt Hadvar's gentle tug on my hand.

"Celeste?" he asked softly.

Blinking the vision away, I turned and quickened my pace. "Sorry."

After a moment's silence, he bumped my shoulder with his. " _We drink to our youth, to days come and gone_ ," he sang in a quiet, amused tone.

I laughed, glancing down quickly to hide it. "Don't you _dare,_ " I giggled, twisting my hand to poke him in the ribs.

"What?" his armour protected him but he still arched sideways to evade me. "It works, doesn't it?" he asked cheekily.

I doubted whoever had first sung _Age of Aggression_ had imagined it would be used like _this_. Eyeing him warily, I conceded. "That it does."

The sparkle to his eyes reminded me that he was withholding _secrets_ from me. "By the way. What did you want me to remind you about today?" I asked, attempting loftiness despite my kindling curiosity.

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten," he laughed. "C'mon," Hadvar encouraged, flexing his fingers in mine, to tighten his hold briefly. "Let's go make you Thane first."

His mood was as infectious as ever, and I found myself giddy with delight as we entered the Blue Palace. There was something extremely indulgent about spending time with Hadvar, and I didn't want to waste a moment of it.

Introductions were made. Jarl Elisef welcomed Hadvar warmly; she had heard much of his deeds and as my fiancee, he was welcome in her court at any time.

The Jarl's request was then gratefully, humbly accepted, and, quite without ceremony, I pledged my support to the Hold and Jarl Elisef, even if my Dragonborn duties would draw me away quite soon. The occasion was marred by a quiet gravity that hung in the air when she spoke the final words to make my appointment official, and added a quiet, regretful, _as your father was before you_.

Perhaps in part, I thought as we left the Blue Palace an hour later, both she and Jarl Balgruuf had made me their Thane as a token of their admiration for father; for the work he had done. Perhaps in part, it was their way of coming to terms with what had happened.

And perhaps in part, I realised with a jolt of bittersweet pride, I had accepted the titles for the same reason.

Before I could become lost in rumination, Hadvar pulled me out of it. "Come with me - please?" he asked quietly, tugging me toward the Bard's College.

There was a nervousness to his manner that caught my attention, and I frowned as I looked between him and the steps leading up to the courtyard. "Hadvar?"

"It'll only take a moment," he urged me to follow.

My frown persisted as I let Hadvar tow me up the stairs to my former school. Why would _Hadvar_ bring me to the Bard's College? The courtyard was now occupied; two students sat on the bench seat I had seen myself on earlier, laughing over their breakfasts and quiet conversation. I didn't know them. They were younger, so perhaps they had only recently started.

He jogged the last few steps up to the door; hesitated, as though unsure about whether he should knock, then pushed his arm against the cast iron. It swung inward, slowly and with a groan of metal against metal.

I glanced around furtively as we stepped into the entryway. Welcoming clusters of carved chairs and low tables; tall vases, choked with lovingly-tended flowering shrubs that leant their sweet, spicy smells to the hall; shelves brimming with haphazardly-stacked books; framed paintings and tapestries, assembled artfully on the larger vertical spaces. The familiarity brought a longing ache to my chest, winding me.

"Why are we here?" I whispered.

Hadvar was peering about, and his gaze settled finally. I followed his gaze to a corner where a group of students were gathered, and my heart thudded as I recognised all of them; it was Aia, Jorn and Ataf. My _friends_. Who I had left without barely a word.

As though sensing our attention, Aia glanced up; did a double-take. Her eyes – made up with a little too much kohl, as usual – widened, and her hand shot out to grab Jorn's arm, which stopped him talking mid-sentence.

I made myself smile; my grip on Hadvar's hand tightened, and I opened my mouth to hail them. No sound emerged.

"Celeste!" Ataf was the first to speak, and fell over himself to join Hadvar and I in the entryway. Aia and Jorn remained where they were, silent and wary, but clearly curious.

Before I could assemble a greeting, the sight of his familiar, eager smile muted me. His welcoming eyes flickered to my hand – entwined in Hadvar's.

"Oh!" he pipped, a little too brightly, then grinned at Hadvar. "You must be the Legion soldier everyone's saying swept our girl off her feet."

He knew, of _course_ he knew, and he was taking it in his stride as usual. I firmly told myself that this meant he was over whatever he had felt for me. Leaving had been the right thing to do.

Hadvar smiled around a surprised chuckle and extended his free hand with a comfort I envied, while I did all I could to keep from choking on my own breath. "I would argue it's the other way around. Hadvar," he introduced, with another brief glance around the room.

Ataf laughed; I could hear the nerves behind it. "She does tend to have that effect on people," he considered. As soon as the words bumbled out of his mouth, the bard backtracked. "Not that I mean - _Gods_ -"

Gratefully, Hadvar sidestepped the comment casually. "I'm looking for Inge Six-Fingers; do you know where-?"

Glancing to him swiftly, my mind turned over the possible reasons for wanting to see _her_ , and was able to settle on only one conclusion – but surely Hadvar wasn't _actually_ buying me a new lute?

"Oh – of course - yes, sure sure," with relief, Ataf released Hadvar's hand and motioned obligingly toward the staircase that led to the upper levels. "She's probably in her classroom already. Want...?" he faltered, casting me an uncertain glance. "I can take you if –?"

"Thank you, but I remember the way," my voice came back, thick and fast, though I was barely able to form a sentence. I rolled my eyes at myself as I smiled gratefully to the man. "Thank you, Ataf," I added honestly.

"Any time," he flashed me a toothy grin.

It struck me straight in the heart, and the memories of how I had used him ill, though I hadn't been conscious of his feelings, brought a rush of guilt to my cheeks. Trying my best not to _run_ up the stairs, I focussed on taking deep, calming breaths.

"Are you all right?" Hadvar whispered, ducking close once we reached the second story landing. "We don't – would you rather we leave?"

Pushing down my unease – because it was _quite_ unwarranted – I shook my head resolutely and offered a small smile. "Sorry. I..." I took another deep breath, trying to find the truth, and it came upon me swiftly once I allowed it to surface. "I didn't realise how much I missed this place," I admitted honestly, glancing down the hallway toward Dean Six-Fingers classroom. "And I just...walked away from it."

"Hey," Hadvar consoled; eased around to face me, "you were trying to go to your family," he grasped my shoulders gently and ducked down to meet my eyes. "You can come back someday, right?"

 _Could I_? I stared at him, painfully unsure. After everything that had changed – everything I had been through. _Could_ I ever return? _Did_ I want to come back; relive the days of the naïve child whose only thoughts were on perfecting her craft? My lower lip trembled when I tried to speak, and I blinked away fresh tears.

With a puff of air, he stood tall and drew me into his arms. "Okay. Let's go. We can do this another time."

"Do _what,_ Hadvar?" I asked earnestly, burying my face in his armour as I clutched his arms. "Why are we here?"

"I hear voices in my hallway," a stern voice snapped. "Are you coming in, or just going to stand there all day mooning?"

We _both_ startled to attention. I recognised the elderly woman observing us from the doorway immediately. She hadn't changed either; still wearing the same horrible chartreuse robe she had adopted like a badge of office. "Dean Six-Fingers," I greeted, hastily wiping my cheeks as my melancholy darted away at the sight of her. "Good morning."

"Passero," she nodded toward me briefly; her eyes shrewd as she glanced me up and down. "Have you been practising your arpeggios every day?"

"Yes ma'am," I replied dutifully with an internal wince.

She sighed laboriously, shaking her head. "Well, becoming Dragonborn hasn't made you a better liar," she murmured thoughtfully, "but I daresay your talent will survive." Her eyes snapped to Hadvar. "And you took your time in coming back, lad."

"Coming _back_?" I gaped. When had Hadvar been at the College before? _Lad_?

"I wasn't –" Hadvar frowned; his hold on my shoulders tightened. "I'm fighting a _war_ -" he spluttered defensively.

"Yes, and we're all so _very_ grateful," she interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Feisty one you've caught here, Passero," Dean Six-Fingers cackled as she motioned for us to follow her. "Come on."

Hadvar cast me a worried glance as the woman retreated. "Is she always like this?" he whispered. "I spoke to the Headmaster last time – I had no _idea_ -" he stammered.

I nodded apologetically, though I had never seen the woman _cackle_. Perhaps her age was catching up to her.

"All right," Hadvar accepted uncertainly as he took my hand. "I'm – sorry about this," he murmured. "I didn't realise the College was...I wanted this to be special," he added regretfully.

I echoed his squeeze as my chest tightened. "Hey," I urged him to look at me. "I don't care where we are. Every _second_ with you is special."

His beautiful eyes misted slightly. "I love the way your mind works," he whispered.

"Are you coming or not?" the Dean called out from within, crashing through the tender moment.

Without further delay, we stepped into my former lute teacher's classroom. "This is one of the rooms I used to take lessons in," I told him offhandedly, eager to make the air more comfortable. I pointed out artworks of note as he took in the high, vaulted ceiling and rows of instrument racks lining the walls. Lutes in varying states of wear were hung over the wooden hooks, and my hands itched to hold one of the finer models.

Dean Six-Fingers was at the front of the room, partially hidden from view, crouched behind her large, heavy, orderly desk.

The old woman groaned as she stood and placed a wrapped parcel on the desk between us. "Here you are. It's all yours – Viarmo told me you settled in advance," she said pointedly. "War must be profitable for some," she muttered.

My eyes widened and I glanced to Hadvar in worry. "You're _are_ buying me a new lute?" I hissed. " _Hadvar_ -"

"Take it," he urged with a nervous smile, nodding for emphasis. There was no hiding the anticipation in his eyes.

Dragging him forward with me – there was no _way_ I was doing this alone – my eyes flickered over the lute-shaped package, and I shook my head in disbelief. It was wrapped in fine, burgundy-tinted fur and tied with thin, carefully-laced tan leather strips. Who had wrapped it? Surely not Dean Six-Fingers. She must have made one of the students do it – which meant – _everybody_ downstairs knew that Hadvar had bought it for me. I _couldn't_ refuse – couldn't risk embarrassing him. I would have to find some way to pay him back. "When did you arrange this?" I murmured idly, to fill the silence.

Dean Six-Fingers arched an eyebrow at me. "If you don't take it, I will sell it on," she warned with a quick glance in Hadvar's direction.

With a gentle laugh, Hadvar ignored her and detangled my hand from his. " _Take_ it," he insisted. "It's yours."

I cradled the familiar shape in part fear, part wonder, and nodded my thanks to Dean Six-Fingers as I took a step back. Suddenly, I wanted to be _anywhere_ but here – I couldn't unwrap it with an audience. "Thank you," I made myself say. "I'll – keep you no longer. I – we can open it..." I glanced to Hadvar and took a shuddering breath. "In private."

On the lower level, the bell sounded, signalling the commencement of morning classes. With a few hasty farewells to my former teacher, Hadvar and I were shooed out of her classroom as students began to trickle in.

Clutching the lute tightly to my chest, I left the college in a daze. I made myself smile and wave at the faces I recognised as we passed them on their way to class, but my thoughts were consumed, sluggish with thick wonder.

We stepped outside. Relief filled me as the cool, salty morning air suffused me and I closed my eyes, basking in it for a moment.

Hadvar placed a hand on my back. I opened my eyes, feeling a little calmer as he ducked down to check my expression. "Are you...?" he murmured uncertainly, then stood with frustration plain on his features. "I shouldn't have made you come here," he cursed. "I wasn't thinking. Of _course_ it's hard for you."

"No," I insisted, facing him properly; the lute between us. "No, I love it. You are a man of your word," I blinked back the overwhelmed tears that I hadn't realised had gathered. "But I will not have Sigrid and Dorthe go without so you can pay for a _lute_. How much did it cost?" I asked.

Hadvar's expression relaxed as he put his hands on his hips and looked toward the wall between us and the Sea of Ghosts with a flush. "Will you look at it first?" he asked quietly.

"Okay," I puffed, searching the yard briefly. I made for the circular amphitheatre to the side of the college. It was far enough from the road and shielded by curved walls that it would be private, now classes had begun.

Hadvar trailed after me; sat beside me on one of the stone steps that served as seats for performances, placing an arm around me as I stared at the parcel on my lap.

I worked at the leather ties. "When did you arrange this?" I asked again, needing to fill the heavy silence with something.

Hadvar's knee brushed mine as he turned in, and the neck of the wrapped lute rested on his leg. "Hmm," he considered, though there was amusement behind it. "Let me think..."

I smiled at his tone, appreciating his good humour; his efforts to keep us buoyant. The leather strips fell away. I brushed back the fur, revealing the instrument.

My eyes widened and my hand flew to my mouth to muffle a squeak of shock.

"Perhaps...the day after we met?" he guessed around a grin.

"Hadvar!" I gasped; my shaking hand fell to the body, brushing the fine wood grain and – _silver_ , fusing what had once been fractures, to create a smooth polished finish. "You – how did you-?" I shuddered. "It was lost – Helgen – _Alduin_ ," I blubbed, glancing over _my_ beloved lute through a blur of tears; the lute my father had given me when I had been accepted into the College. It was stained with blood that would never come out, and marked by lines of shiny silver along both the body and the neck, bright against the dark wood grain like flashes of lightning. It was a lute with a story as strange and terrible and wonderful as my own, and it was more beautiful and precious to me than ever for its scars.

"I told you, it was yours," he said reasonably, humbly, shuffling closer; adjusted his arm to take a tighter hold. "Please, don't cry," he laughed thickly as he squeezed and kissed the top of my head. "You will make _me_ cry."

I laughed through a sob, tearing my eyes from the lute to gaze at him. "You went back to Helgen?" I acknowledged tearfully, my voice shuddering with emotion.

He smiled at the lute for himself, brushing his fingers over the strings in thought. "I went back to look for survivors, after we said good bye," he admitted quietly.

My heart swelled with so much love and pride for this wonderful man that I thought it might burst – but I remained quiet and contained myself – because it was clear that he wasn't done.

"Didn't find anyone," he looked up to the wall on the other side of the amphitheatre, clearing his throat. "But, found the cart you'd been..." he drifted off again. "I remembered how distressed you were about leaving your lute behind, and thought," he shrugged, changing his mind. "I wanted to see you again," he admitted with a fond, faraway look and a distant smile. "Maybe if I could have it repaired, I could bring it to you," he chuckled helplessly. "Uncle Alvor started it," he motioned toward the silver lines. "But," he faltered. "I brought it to Solitude to be finished, a few weeks ago. Didn't know who else might...take care of it."

I placed my lute carefully on the seat behind us, nestled in its fur wrapping – then faced Hadvar, placed my hands on his cheeks; encouraged him to look at me. He let me turn him; his gaze flickered over me; _have I done right_ , his eyes asked, as though this moment was the culmination of all the days that had passed since we met. A smile was there, but small, and in his eyes I found devotion and hope, such beautiful hope. My whole _body_ ached with longing for him. If I was able to spend every moment of the rest of my life showing him how much I loved him – it would not be enough.

I leaned up; pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. "I love you," I whispered over them, barely retreating. Kissed him again; deepened it when his encircling hand tightened and his other brushed my hair back, threading fingers through the curly strands.

He sighed into the kiss and I felt his tension slowly ease. This beautiful gesture had been difficult for us both – as were many of the decisions we had to make each day. But it was worth it. _He_ was worth it. With a small tug to his bottom lip that earned me a quiet groan, we parted. "Can I play it for you?" I asked, breathless as I pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth. "Please?" I begged.

I felt the tilt to his mouth under mine. "Play it for _you_ ," he mumbled, mouth finding mine again for another brief, wistful kiss. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," I insisted. I wanted him to know how much he meant to me; continually inspired me, but couldn't couple together the right words. Music would succeed where my words continued to fail.

His eyes were clouded with yearning; the product of our lazy, passionate kisses, but he nodded, easing back. "I love hearing you sing," he owned quietly, still recovering his breaths; his chest rose and fell. "You need never ask."

With a small, excited smile, I retrieved my lute. _My lute_. For a beat, I searched it in wonder, again, shaking myself out of my stupor as I positioned it in my lap and tested the strings.

It was in tune – my beautiful instrument was all ready for me to play. Dean Six-Fingers would have ensured it, and the strings – high-quality steel – would take a bit of playing to bend out of tune, even new.

My eyes fluttered closed as my fingers drifted over the neck, the strings; bumped over the frets. It felt... _so impossibly right_ to hold it again.

"Or, maybe I should leave you two alone," Hadvar chuckled.

Laughing, I opened my eyes. "You're quite cheeky, for a muse," my amusement was unshakable as I positioned my hand and decided on a song. Something to thank him; a separation from the past, and a distraction from the task ahead. The anticipation of _playing_ it thrummed through me.

"Muse?" Hadvar lifted his brows with a quiet laugh. "Isn't a bard always frustrated with her muse?"

"Only when they _leave_ ," I gave him a knowing glance, trying to keep the air playful. "Now, let me sing for you. It's been...too long," I glanced over the neck; positioned to F, and plucked at the strings. Oh – the sound was _so_ much more resonant – I'd forgotten what proper steel strings sounded like.

" _O my sweet love, he waits for me, Through storm and shine, cross land or sea,_ " I sang quietly, meeting Hadvar's eyes. The open, enraptured look he was giving me made me shiver; I had to watch my hands to continue because _by the Gods_ his mouth was distracting. " _I run to him and together we, Sway as we kiss; Sway as we kiss..._ "

* * *

 _A/n: I wanted to go to the Thalmor party this chapter, too, but Celeste and Hadvar wouldn't let me.  
I'm so sorry for the delays - work is constantly on my back but I think about this story often and where it's going next. I hope I haven't lost too many people to the wait. Thanks for your patience and support, if you've made it this far._


	51. Dancing Around the Problem

_Chapter 51: Dancing Around the Problem_

The night grew dense, closed in by low clouds and tall, thick evergreens as our coach ambled along the steep, winding road above Solitude that would take us to the Thalmor Embassy.

Hadvar enclosed my hand in his, wordlessly urging me closer, and I leaned on his shoulder, welcoming his warmth. It was nice to sit still and watch the world shift around us for once.

 _Just another play act,_ I reminded myself, trying to come to terms with my goals for the evening. _Be who they expect; keep their minds at ease,_ I schooled. _Smile. Be courteous and attentive. Let them think that you're only here as Hadvar's plus one. Give them no reason to suspect anything._

The journey was short; had the weather been agreeable, we might have walked. As the gatehouse swam into view, made rosy by pools of light that faded to nothingness where the lanterns' reach ebbed, snow finally began to fall, and settled on the frozen whiteness that already dusted every rock, arch, and bough.

Hadvar tucked me even closer – and I could not contain a shiver; my eyes glued to the looming border between Skyrim and what was technically part of the Aldmeri Dominion. Between us and the Embassy party were high, bricked walls, resolutely unscalable, topped with rows of thin, golden bars, pointed at the tips. The effect was distinguished and intimidating; much like its formidable inhabitants.

The gilt gate opened silently inward as the coach approached – by either a guard within the house or some automatic mechanism, for I saw nobody and we weren't hailed or stopped.

 _Too easy_ , I thought with another shudder – suddenly grateful for my bare arms, for it gave me a valid reason to feel and react, rather than suppress and stew. The coach rounded the courtyard and the Embassy proper took form through the gently drifting snow. Torches had been artfully placed in the courtyard to light the way for the guests, though struggled against the weather, issuing tiny, almost indignant hisses as the snow swirled by. The glow cast shimmering auras over both structure and courtyard, and the effect was striking; a wall of ethereal, agitated creatures of light and shadow.

The roof was very steep and interspersed by tall windows lit up from within, and the bricks were finely worked and evenly placed, more graceful than any fortress I had seen in Skyrim. It reeked of elitist defiance; almost determinably out of place, imagined by an elegant mind for elegant people – and placed on this mountaintop in the harshest of climates, to spite it. Spite _us_.

 _We are meant to be here._ I had to take solace in that. Hadvar helped me down from the coach, and I caught movement that was neither light nor shadow ahead.

A Thalmor in full regalia stood before another guest at the base of a grand stair case.

 _Praefect Reidarsson plus one_ , I repeated. I lifted my chin; pushed my unease to the back of my mind; adopted a demure smile. My stomach fluttered with the excited butterflies of a pending performance. _Show time._

There was a short delay in the form of the other guest. He was some official with the East Empire Trading Company, if his mutters were to be believed. It appeared that he had turned up to the party already drunk; a thick cloud smelling of rum followed his every sway. He was checking all the nooks and crannies of his high-class, fur-lined outfit for his invitation – and the search was accompanied by a constant stream of grumbles about his rank, status, and who was expecting him within. The Altmer checking invitations remained dispassionately immobile and silent.

Hadvar sent me a small smile; his invitation in the hand not entwined with mine. "Are you cold?" he asked softly.

Briefly, I felt the attention of the Altmer at the stairs flicker toward us.

I ignored the fresh attention as I shook my head. "Thank you – I'm fine."

"Enough, Razelan," a voice as smooth as silk came. "Step aside and let the lady through."

Hadvar gave my hand an encouraging squeeze. "That's us."

The Redguard man let us pass with a disdainful glower trained on Hadvar, though he said nothing as he bodily swayed. "Mm check the coach," he announced, turning abruptly to face a nearby pine tree.

I had to suppress my amusement – proper people attending proper parties did _not_ giggle like children, no matter the circumstances.

Bright eyes scanned the slip of paper Hadvar handed the guard, and his focus rose to scrutinise my partner, and then me.

I caught the moment he recognised who I was – the barest arch of a slim, blonde eyebrow, and a slight tilt to the corner of his mouth, as though something about my appearance amused him. "Welcome to the Thalmor Embassy, Praefect Reidarrson," he greeted formally, oozing pretension. With a follow-up nod in my direction, he added, "and Miss Passero. You may both proceed, at your leisure," he waved us on. "Enjoy."

There was something mocking about his manner, but I let it roll off me with the snowflakes as we ascended the stairs. Altmer often made me feel as though they were laughing at me; it was just their way, and this Thalmor guard, I assured myself, was no different to Endarie at Raiments, or Melaran.

Beautiful embossed swirls decorated the iron doors, swung open by a tall, silent Thalmor soldier when Hadvar and I drew closer.

I thanked the mer as we passed. If I wanted to gain anything tonight without incident, I had to keep an open mind. I would not give in to fear and prejudice. The Thalmor's eyes flickered over me but she remained motionless and no reply came. Perhaps she had been ordered to remain silent; a machine, opening the way.

It was _much_ warmer inside the large, vaulted room. For a moment I was busy shedding my travelling cape at the coat room beside the bar. A harried-looking Bosmer accepted my burden; his eyes searching me nervously with a sliver of recognition before he handed Hadvar my ticket and hastened away.

"We're here," Hadvar let out a pleased sigh; his hand found the small of my back. "The journey wasn't too uncomfortable-?"

"No, of course not," I smiled graciously, recognising the signal for small talk; to set the minds of all the guests and servants observing us at ease. Drawing on my ready pool of nerves, I ducked close to Hadvar and pointed; eyes dancing over the high arches in wonder.

They were brimming with looping garlands of lush greenery, woven with summer flowers and strings of tiny, flickering lanterns. "Look Hadvar – tiger lillies, in Skyrim," I gushed quietly, focussed on the bright orange blooms instead of the eyes turned toward us; some shrewd, and others merely intrigued. "However did they survive the snow?"

"Some would wonder the same of you," I could hear the gentle smile playing on his lips.

I turned to face him, warmed by his attention and the tender appreciation behind it.

The stormy-grey lingered and softened; the hand on my back caressed. Raiments had delivered tonight; a long indigo skirt with soft, layered folds and an ivory bodice, bordered by just enough gold lace to be tasteful; an elvish design. Endarie had insisted in her haughty, unimpressed tones, that if we were able to ignore my want of height, I had an elvish figure; and was I not attending an Aldmeri party?

My arms had been goose-pimpled since I had slipped into the dress, but my cape, the fall of my hair against the back of my neck, and Hadvar's willing closeness, had deflected enough of the chill for the design to be tolerable during the brief time spent outdoors.

His hand rose to drift along my bare arm idly. "You are always so graceful, but tonight..." he murmured, then faltered. "I can't stop looking at you, amazed that I managed to earn this beautiful creature's affections."

"What can I say?" I whispered; wound my arms around his neck, drawing closer as my eyes flit over him. "I love a man in uniform," I teased.

It was taking a little getting used to; being so publicly _together_ while others stared and wondered. It was nice, even if tonight it was in part for the benefit of our host, for there was no falseness, no caution to his adoring gaze and doting words. Hadvar had always been very hands-on in private – even before our dance on the bridge in Riverwood – but he had held back in the company of others, particularly when he was on duty. But, since he had arrived in Solitude – the way he looked at me, touched me at every opportunity, stole kisses between breaths when I least expected it – it was thrilling, and somehow made me more certain of myself. I couldn't explain it – and didn't want to waste time over-examining the feeling.

Hadvar's reply laugh was a rush of air and he glanced over my shoulder. "Beautiful, _cheeky_ creature's affections," he amended. His hands fell to my waist and his eyes flit around the room. "Rulindil isn't here," he murmured, almost to himself.

I didn't care in that moment; my eyes roamed over Hadvar. He looked _incredible,_ dressed in a formal type of Legion armour that was more rich material than steel. The tiny lanterns above us made the chainmail on his arms glimmer and caught the plates on his shoulders and chest, and warmed the claret cape strapped over his shoulders. The lights danced with the lines of the Imperial dragon embroidered in gold on one side – the only subtle reminder of his position; his allegiance. He wore no weapons – nobody approached the Embassy bearing arms – and the armour didn't facilitate a sword anyway. It must have been wholly ceremonial – but I was hardly an expert on such matters. Hadvar knew what he was doing – and it comforted me to know he wasn't prepared for battle. He was a picture of determination – no, of what the Empire represented, to me at least; order and diplomacy.

I leaned in closer, vaguely conscious of our audience. Well, I wanted to put the public skepticism about us to rest, didn't I?

"What's your meeting with the Third Emissary about?" I whispered along his ear.

Hadvar smiled, lowering his thoughtful eyes to the polished flagstones underfoot. His fingers flexed on my waist; a silent apology.

I ducked to check his expression. "Oh – I know that look. Classified?" I asked with a small laugh, trying to keep things light.

"Sort of," Hadvar wore a sorry smile. His eyes flit over me, growing more faraway by the second. "Can we...?" he swallowed; tried again. "Will you...dance with me?"

"I'd love to," my smile widened. I recalled our first dance fondly; the impromptu madness I had coaxed him into that had led to our first, tentative kiss.

Hadvar ushered me forward. I searched for a bard in the fringes – no, _bards_ , for I heard two instruments once I paid attention to the music. A flute and – _there_. Tucked away at the far end of the room, under one of the decorated arches. I should have known who it was when I heard the flute. Dean Ateia, blonde hair wound high into a secure, elegant knot with her favoured jewel-encrusted, golden flute perched against her pursed lips. She played a sweet, lilting melody that glided underneath the bustle of conversation, accompanied by a younger student I didn't recognise bearing a drum. They paid no attention to the party guests, and I wondered if my former singing teacher realised I was here.

The guests had moved on from us, content to chat amongst themselves. _Good,_ I thought with satisfaction as Hadvar drew me around, settling a hand on my waist with a broad smile that lit up his handsome face. I returned it, then let my eyes roam. Now it was _my_ turn to look at _them_.

I caught flashes of gold and silver, plush furs and velvets and soft, impractical silks, and recognised some of the faces assembled; Jarls, loyal to the Empire, minus Balgruuf – but then, there was Proventus Avenicci, talking to one of Jarl Elisef's housecarls. He must have come in Jarl Balgruuf's stead. Lady Vici was there of course; arm linked with Thane Bryling, and each held a delicate glass flute of sparkling liquid, half-filled with alcohol-saturated berries. They wore bored expressions, as was expected of high-ranking ladies at high-ranking events. Thane Erikur sat on the sidelines, pink-cheeked and tankard in hand, talking to a younger man on the arm of an older, haughty-looking Imperial woman I didn't know, who was regarding their exchange with viper-like eyes narrowed to slits. There were Altmer aplenty – but perhaps they were not all Thalmor, as not all wore the signature robes of their governing body. Some wore mages' robes, and others, fine, elegant dresses, much like my own.

Hadvar held me closer, drawing my attention back to him. "One dance," he murmured humbly.

Understanding, I nodded and settled against him with a grateful sigh. A single dance, for after it I doubted we would be at liberty to focus on each another for a time. I could give him that.

For another blissful minute, the world left us alone. I didn't want it to end after the night and then beautiful day we had shared, but as we swayed to the instrumental flute and drum number, my mind ticked over and fingers of worry formed to scratch at my throat. I shifted; pressed my forehead against Hadvar's chest plate and begged the thoughts to just _wait_. One more minute. His chest plate was unyielding and cold, and as good as it looked on him, I wished it was gone so I could feel _him_ through the barrier.

 _Just dance,_ I pleaded.

But now the tickle had begun it was impossible to dismiss, and grew thicker as the seconds passed. The reality of where we were, what I hoped to do, caught up to me.

 _Giselle could be under this very building, begging for the pain to end, and you are **dancing** around her **captors**._

Yes, the Aldmeri Dominion was technically at peace with the Empire, and I could not blame an entire race for the actions of the few. But the Thalmor, those that governed, were relentless in their pursuits and they _knew_ things; knew how to make people disappear, people like Giselle. And now we were willingly amongst them under somewhat false pretences _._ The doubt closed around my throat; had we walked into a trap? Had I put Hadvar in danger by coming here with him? Did the Thalmor _know_ why I was here; know how Farkas, Lydia and I had taken out the three agents that had come to question me - the agents who had paralysed me when I had failed to comply?

 _You are becoming as paranoid as Delphine._

That wouldn't do – and somehow, it was thinking of Delphine and not wanting to be like her that helped ease the panic that would have otherwise choked me. If I gave in to fear, _they_ would see, and I would fall under suspicion at once. I reinforced my hold on Hadvar; rested my head on his shoulder; breathed him in and listened to the music and the sound of his heart as it thumped away, slow and steady.

Hadvar hummed contentedly, and the sound further settled me. The weight of angst lifted until all I was left with was a tiny, lingering doubt over how I might accomplish my two goals.

"I'm being selfish, aren't I?" he confessed quietly, tilting his head toward mine. The hand at my back drifted down, then up again. "Trying to put off the inevitable," he murmured, thoughtful again.

I smiled against his neck; had I not been thinking along similar lines?

He sighed into the space between us. "Four of our scouts were captured outside of Windhelm, almost a week ago," he disclosed in a low, calm voice that did not fit what he was telling me. His voice was so soft and his motions so tender that any observing us would assume he was speaking of love, not war.

It was a simple matter to remain relaxed while he drew soothing lines up and down my back. "Will they be all right?" I whispered along the curve of his ear.

Silence fell and hung between us. In the far corner, the patter of drum beat stopped and the flute fluttered a few low and final notes, then ceased.

He enveloped me in his arms, squeezing briefly. "I don't know," he admitted, sighing into my hair. "I intend to find out tonight."

How might the _Thalmor_ have such information? Why a meeting if people's lives were at stake – would not time be of the essence?

But, "Can I help?" was all I asked; unable to voice what I _wanted_ to say, for fear of scattering his hope.

He shuddered. "You _are_ helping. You're always helping me," he corrected, standing tall with a regretful smile. "Thank you. For – the dance," he belatedly added.

I tried to smile but his melancholy made me ache, so I just nodded and took his hand as we retreated to the side of the floor. "Tell me if you think of anything I can do," I insisted quietly.

Hadvar let out a small laugh to the curved ceiling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill the mood. Should we get a drink-?"

"Hey," I tugged, urging him to me as I settled against a column. "I want to be with _you_ ," I reminded, resolved to claim his focus, for just a _moment_ longer. "I don't care that we are at a party," I whispered, wrinkling my nose for good measure.

His eyes found mine and stared, searching. The gloom tempered gradually and a more settled look took its place. "True," he ducked closer; arched an arm to settle above me. "I'd much rather be at the inn, having our own party;" a coarse whisper.

 _He's back._

With a thrill of warmth, I giggled. "Endarie will _blacklist_ me if I ruin another dress!" I exclaimed in a hush.

"We can't have that," Hadvar's smile was gradual but genuine as he leaned down. "I'll be more careful with this one," he murmured, detangling our hands to loop an arm around my waist. "Slower," he added quietly; pressed his forehead to my temple. "Hours, if that's what it takes," his breath, then his mouth, brushed my neck.

I closed my eyes, allowing desire to sweep through me even as my cheeks burned. He was working hard to distract me, perhaps distract us both – and he was _so_ good at it.

"Praefect Reidarsson," I whispered unsteadily.

"Mm?" he hummed; mouth occupied.

"We're – at the Thalmor Embassy," I reminded him breathily.

Warm air huffed against my neck. "I am aware of our location, Lady Dragonborn," he eased up with a wide, confident smile, bumping his forehead against mine briefly, affectionately. "To be continued," he promised in a low growl.

 _Gods_ , he was intoxicating, and I couldn't find any words; all I managed was to bite my bottom lip to suppress how I wished to react as I gazed at him, mute with longing.

"And now you're teasing me," he narrowed his eyes, brushing his thumb across my lip fleetingly. "I'm supposed to be working;" a quiet sigh.

My teeth released as incredulity bubbled. "I'm teasing _you_?" I accused.

With a good-natured laugh – oh yes, he _was_ aware of the effect he had on me – he motioned toward a girl holding a tray of drinks. "A truce, then – or I might never make it to my meeting."

 _His meeting._ It was the reminder I needed but didn't want. With a feigned, weary sigh to the ceiling – _Kynareth, give me strength_ – I relented and let him guide me toward the closest servant bearing goblets, flutes and tankards.

Before we reached her, a tall figure dressed in a sheath of gold and black stepped into our path.

"Praefect Reidarsson. To be Tribune, soon, if the whispers travelling from Castle Dour are correct," Ambassador Elenwen greeted with a dangerous, amused smile as she extended her hand. "I was astonished to hear that Tullius could spare you."

Hadvar's hand tensed before he released me, but his smile was all warmth as he took hers. "Ambassador, it's wonderful to see you again. The General sends his apologies, and me in his place – obviously," he explained; his tone adopting an authority I had only heard snatches of before. "I have been briefed and given the authority to speak on-"

"All business as usual, Hadvar," she released his fingers with a weary roll to her eyes. "Do try to _enjoy_ yourself a little," Elenwen's piercing, amber eyes honed on me, saw _through_ me, "particularly since you have brought such pleasant company with you," she tilted her head, almost imperceptibly. " _Celeste Passero_ ," she murmured, "I don't believe we have had the pleasure?"

She held her hand out in the same manner she had to Hadvar. With a mental shove to push away an errant thought – _this is the woman who oversees what happens to Giselle –_ I adopted the shy smile I had ordered myself to show them. "I believe you are correct, Ambassador," I lowered my eyes demurely, shook her hand, as I would have done with any other dignitary.

"Lovely," Elenwen seemed satisfied by _something_ and casually beckoned the serving girl we had been making for before she had intercepted us. "How fortunate you were able to spare time out of your schedule to accompany your fiancee tonight. You are always welcome here as member of your most _noble_ household," she reached for two drinks; passed one each to Hadvar and I. "When you are not too busy shouting at dragons, of course," her eyes glittered; her voice oozed with arrogance. "I've always said it is a shame your father did not bring you amongst us sooner."

She _had_? And – father – _really_? I could not picture him in this room, though as one of the High King's Thanes, he must have attended a number of events here.

"That is probably my fault," I reached for something appropriate with a small laugh. "My studies consumed my attentions, until..."

Hadvar's arm resettled around my back; a gentle squeeze of caution as he took a sip from his tankard.

The Ambassador made a sound of discontent. "There is no need to hold your tongue, dear. This _insufferable_ civil conflict has disrupted my duties, as well," she gathered a delicate golden flute for herself from the tray, and then shooed the servant away with an idle wave of her hand. "Had the dragon in Helgen bit Stormcloak's head from his shoulders, it would have done us a service," she murmured darkly.

She was venturing toward Delphine's suspicions, and I had to wonder if the mer was baiting me. I huffed an unimpressed laugh, _becoming_ the person I wanted her to think I was. "I have encountered enough dragons since then to know that they think only of fire and food," I lied. "I doubt they have noticed their lunch is fighting a war."

"Quite," Ambassador Elenwen conceded, frowning over my shoulder, distracted. I felt the presence of others approach and settle close by; Hadvar glanced back with open interest.

"Oh, _Ondolemar_ ," Elenwen drawled in reproof as her smirk lifted. "You will cause a riot in my ballroom," she arched a thin eyebrow.

"You are capable of that without _my_ assistance, Elenwen," a smooth, arrogant voice cut through the air.

In the action of turning back to face our host, Hadvar's arm tightened urgently around me. "If you will excuse us, Ambassador. I must get to my meeting with the Third-"

"Oh, come now Hadvar, Rulindil is going no where," she motioned toward the newcomer. "Allow me to introduce you to Second Emissary Ondolemar," she purred.

Hadvar tensed; shaking with restraint. I could not place his sudden panic, and brushed my hand over his shoulder in consolation as I turned to face this Ondolemar. Whoever the Second Emissary was, we could handle him.

"Naturally, there is no need to introduce either of you to his guest," she added smugly.

 _Oh._

Feminine eyes as blue as my own widened as they took in the sight of _me_ ; her lips parted and her knuckles, gripping the Second Emissary's arm, turned white.

" _Celeste_?" she whispered in disbelief.

Hadvar held me tightly; he was all that kept me from falling to the ground in a defeated heap. "Giselle," I managed quietly, suppressing the anger and relief that struggled through my veins.

Dressed in delicate mauve silk with her hair smoothed straight and tucked into a coil at the back of her neck, she looked like the prim Giselle I had _thought_ I'd always known. "I...did not expect to see you here," I murmured around my tongue, suddenly thick in my own mouth.

"Or I you," her voice trembled as she flashed Ondolemar a hasty glance, her eyes brimming with betrayal.

The Second Emissary chuckled. "Do not _pout_ , my dear, it is not becoming," he dismissed; liquid gold flickered to Hadvar, set between high cheekbones as sharp as a blade. "Praefect Reidarsson, I presume?" he addressed formally. "I have heard much of your exploits."

He passed me his tankard to shake Ondolemar's hand without having to let go of me. "Second Emissary," he greeted tightly. I glanced up to him; a sudden thought popping into existence. Had he _known_ about...? Surely not. _No_. No, he would have told me this, classified or not. Her appearance was a surprise to him.

Ondolemar released Hadvar's hand with a chuckle. "At ease, soldier. The addition of one more Passero to our party should make little difference to you. As Rulindil will attest, Giselle has been instrumental in securing the information you have come for tonight," he collected drinks from an approaching servant; idly passed my sister a goblet.

I knew I should pay more attention to what he was saying, but I could not tear my eyes from my sister. I had expected to be dragging her out of this building in the rags of a Stormcloak cuirass, dotted with injuries, and...here she was. _Clean_.

Her hand shook as she lifted the silver goblet to her lips.

 _Elegant._

With a pleading look to the ceiling, she took a long drink.

 _Unharmed_.

 _For assisting Ulfric Stormcloak and his people in their escape after the murder of the High King, you are sentenced to death by beheading._

Questions formed and scattered in my mind as the Ambassador's suave tones cut through the mounting tension. "Yes but perhaps a little _warning_ next time would be in order, Ondolemar. Half of the people in this room have not been made aware of Miss Passero's _true_ allegiance."

"And it is my intention to put those minds at ease, once and for all, _tonight_ ," Ondolemar purred. My eyes shot to his hand as long fingertips _stroked_ _my sister's arm_ , and she closed her eyes; visibly relaxing. "Giselle is a good girl," he said reasonably. "She deserves to be recognised for her services to this province, as much as her sister does," he motioned toward me with the same arm.

It took all of what remained of my will to keep from recoiling. Was he _serious_? Had the world gone _mad –_ had _I_ gone mad? I had _spoken_ to Giselle – she worked for, _believed_ in Stormcloak; was _devoted_ to him.

"It is lucky for us that we managed to liberate Miss Passero from the fiends who stole her out of the Empire's custody," Ondolemar was saying in a tone that dared us to question him.

Did the Second Emissary really want Skyrim – want _us_ to believe she was on the side of the Empire? Did they expect us to swallow that she had been paralysed and stolen by _someone else_ , only to be _rescued_ by the Thalmor?

Hadvar's unfaltering grip tugged at the corners of my mind – his tension, strangely enough, was all that grounded me, for I could not abandon him to my internalising, or react in a way that would put his life at risk. With a thud to my chest, I reached for an excuse to take him away from this – whatever it was. Reunion. Confrontation. Cruel joke.

He had _fought against her;_ magic versus steel. He'd torn the Jagged Crown from her grasp and outed her before she could kill him and Dathies, and all the soldiers they had fought through Korvanjund with. And she had murdered Ralof, his friend.

And – it was bigger than her. The Dominion had not only stolen Giselle from the Empire, but had been keeping her and her secrets to themselves for the past weeks. Was it enough to shatter the tenuous truce between the two factions? Unlikely. But to Hadvar – Giselle's appearance on the arm of a Thalmor officer – whether she was spy or defector – mocked everything he was fighting to uphold.

Underneath the buzzing between my ears, Dean Ateia's flute struck up another lilting tune, kept in time by the pitter-patter of the quieter hand drum. I blinked back tears as the music encircled my heart and gripped relentlessly, threatening to set my emotions loose. Deep within me, my soul stirred; impatient by my inaction.

Yes – I had to get Hadvar away from here, away from _them_. This was _bad_.

"We would have lost more than a pretty face, had she been lost to us," the Second Emissary continued in a haughty, yet jovial tone.

"A relief, to be sure," Elenwen murmured thoughtfully.

The air was thick with deception, and I could listen no more. _Be the bard, not the Companion, Thane, or dragon,_ I pleaded.

"You will have to excuse us, Ambassador," I gripped Hadvar's arm; my voice polite, if not too flat as my eyes settled on Elenwen. "I promised my fiancee a dance before his meeting, and when music beckons," I tilted my head; took his drink and placed both down on the nearest horizontal surface. _Be the bard._ "I must answer its call."

"Do what you must," Elenwen recovered, smug once more. Her eyes spoke volumes; _little fool_ , the liquid amber jeered.

I couldn't feel my feet yet somehow I walked us away, repressing the urge to look over my shoulder to the two highest-ranking Thalmor in Skyrim and my _sister_.

Hadvar said nothing, turning me around once we reached the opposite end of the dance floor, close to where Dean Ateia and the younger bard were performing. Had he not stopped, I might have continued walking us into the wall. He settled me against him; his hand gripped mine tightly and brought it up to rest between us.

We swayed. Still, he said nothing, and I silently begged him to speak, to say, _do_ , something, _anything_. When I looked up, feeling separated from myself, I found blankness, betrayed by a glimmer of resentment in his depths.

I knew the look was not intended for me, but it took me aback nonetheless. "You can't think that I _knew_ -?"

"No," he cut in hurriedly; his eyes widened, flashing with frustration. He wrapped himself around me, our feet shuffling just enough to keep moving; keep up the pretence. "No," he repeated, quieter; his lips on my ear. "Celeste, we cannot speak here," his arms tightened, shielding us from the world.

My own theories were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit them back as I slammed my eyes shut. "I know," I whispered regretfully. Whatever Giselle's appearance meant, she was not in any position to be _saved._ I would have to focus on unearthing information about the rise of Alduin, and Hadvar on retrieving the location of the Legion scouts.

He hesitated, then I felt him nod. With a deep, shuddering breath, he eased back, his eyes more focussed. "I understand if you want to go. Perhaps I can meet you at the inn, after I've made my report at Castle Dour-"

I shook my head; made myself smile. "I won't leave you here on your own."

Hadvar's hand rose to my cheek; he lowered his head to mine. " _Thank the Divines_ ," he hushed; a possessive declaration that sent a bolt of adrenaline through me. "Because I cannot _bear_ saying good bye here."

My lips found his, soft but determined; in need of saving from this bombshell, and he seemed to understand at once. I leaned against him, uncaring of who noticed – _if she can bed Stormcloak for three years and walk in here on the arm of the Second Emissary, then I can damn well kiss the man I am betrothed to_.

Giselle's appearance would have _wrecked_ me had I been here alone pretending to be Lady Vici. My reaction would have certainly gotten me, and possibly others, killed. Hadvar had saved me – again. I let myself feel my gratitude – let it spill out of me and into our kiss.

We were moving – turning with the music – my back met a wall of stone. A brief check between breaths – Hadvar had steered us off the dance floor and into the shadows of an arch. Across the room, I caught sight of Giselle, speaking to the Second Emissary with a knot in her brow.

Hadvar drew me back, his thumb on my chin; his eyes met mine. "Please. Look at me," he urged softly.

I nodded hastily, breathless. He was my rock; the only certainty in this room. I wanted nothing more than to look at him until the Divines took me. His lips brushed over mine again, warm and gentle, searching, guiding me back from the brink of distress.

When he eased back and stared down at me, bewildered, he huffed an overwhelmed laugh. "Wow," he cleared his throat; his voice gravelly. "I'll have to remember how well that works."

With an incredulous, quiet laugh of my own, I met his eyes, glowing with praise. _Gods_ , I loved him in that moment.

"Praefect – the party atmosphere has gotten the better of you," a curt voice brushed against our bubble. "Are you here on business or pleasure?"

With unashamed ease, Hadvar rose, his hand slipping into mine as he turned. "Must the two always be mutually exclusive, Brelas?" his eyes sparkled as he threw me a warm, amused glance. "Is it time?"

Before us was a Bosmer woman wearing a low-cut, off-the-shoulder dress; the same style all the serving girls were in. Her arms were crossed and one impatient eyebrow was raised, though she smirked at Hadvar with an ease that ruffled something deep within me.

"It was _time_ six minutes ago," she replied pointedly. "Come on. It's not wise to keep Master Rulindil waiting."

"Lead the way," Hadvar motioned with a cheeky grin. The servant narrowed her eyes and stepped past, making for a door beyond the alcove we had taken refuge in.

Her hand landed on the handle, but she frowned when she noticed Hadvar's hand still entwined with mine. "Oh," she realised, glancing up. "He said nothing about you. Sorry," she actually sounded it as she waved toward the ballroom. "You can wait for him here."

Hadvar's hold on my hand tightened, but I met the Bosmer's eyes steadily. "Nothing about _me_?" I wove with a confused blink. "Surely you jest?"

The Bosmer shrugged a slim shoulder. "I can schedule you an appointment, if you wish?"

I arched an eyebrow at her. "The _Dragonborn_ needs to make appointments?"

" _Brelas_ ," Hadvar warned through a laugh. "It's all right. You don't want to obstruct our Lady Dragonborn from her duty. Your master will understand."

With a world-weary sigh, the woman relented. "As you like. What would I know, I just work here."

As we stepped through the door, I cast a final glance over my shoulder and found my sister. Our eyes met; hers wide and curious, and for a heartbeat we stared at one another until Brelas closed the door between us.

–

"Reidarsson, very good," Rulindil stood in the doorway to his office, flicking a nod of dismissal to the Bosmer.

"Third Emissary," Hadvar greeted with a tight salute.

"At ease," his dark eyes swerved to me. "And, what have we here? One _Miss Passero,_ on the arm of the officer, as the tales would tell," he smiled, as a fox might to a rabbit. "Have you joined the Imperial Legion, or are darker forces at work?" he mocked.

"My apologies, Third Emissary," my eyelashes fluttered as I lowered my head. I had been playing the timid, lovesick girl all night; I could continue it here. "I see my fiancee so infrequently that I was reluctant to leave his side."

"A noble cause," there was a quiet snort from the Altmer. "But nevertheless," he tilted his head, inspecting me. "The information I am about to discuss with your _fiancee_ is on a need-to-know basis," he motioned toward the entryway to the Solar. "You will be quite comfortable here, and once Reidarrson and I are done," he sent me another wicked smile, "perhaps you and I might have a little _talk_."

I glanced to Hadvar and frowned; he nodded toward the entryway encouragingly. "Go on, love. We won't be long."

 _If you push the matter, it will arouse suspicion._ With a forlorn nod, I clasped his hand in mine briefly, then released him. "I miss you," I mouthed.

Hadvar flashed me a half-smile as Rulindil closed the door to his office with a quiet, "Ugh."

Closing my eyes, I let out a puff of air to the ceiling. Okay, so I hadn't been able to join in the meeting – but the Third Emissary wanted me to stay, to _talk_. This could still work for me – or, well, for _Delphine_ really.

I turned, scanning the entryway. The Solar was tall and airy, much like the ballroom minus the garlands on the high stone arches. Clay pots were positioned in many of the corners growing neat, verdant ferns. In the centre was a large staircase that led both up and down, flanked by elaborately carved stone railings. Hanging high at the centre was a delicate, polished chandelier, brimming with tiny flickering candles.

Settling onto a bench seat around a small table laid with a platter of thick bread, grapes and cheese wedges and several full champagne flutes – I selected one, turning the smooth neck of the glass in my fingertips, and ran over what I could and couldn't tell Rulindil about Delphine Comtois.

When he had said _talk_ , I had understood, though I could not let him know it. I had no doubts that he meant to ask me about the Blade. I could not play dumb here; not if I wanted to draw any information from him about the rise of the dragons, if the Dominion was indeed connected to Alduin's rising, but as much as I didn't like the woman, I could not betray her location and seal her fate. Perhaps, if I was cooperative and forthcoming enough, I could even absolve Farkas, Lydia and I of any suspicion regarding the whereabouts of the three agents who had come for me.

I was so wound in my own musings that I didn't hear the footfalls on the step; didn't catch the signs of approach.

A hand grasped my shoulder, and my heart leapt in fear.

"Heard they were bringing you in, Sel," a greeting was rumbled, close to my ear. "And don't you look good enough to eat?"

I startled, spinning to face a Nord man, my eyes wide with _Fus_ rising instinctively in my throat.

The amusement in his warm, brown eyes stilled the Shout, and my eyes narrowed in indignation. Sel? Okay. Another one who thought I was my sister. I glanced to the closed door to Rulindil's office hastily, then back to this newcomer. I had time to play this out. _What can you tell me about her activities?_

"What do you want?" I feigned a yawn, eyeing the man up and down. "I _was_ enjoying myself." Forties, or thereabouts. Large shoulders, thick red hair and long, scruffy sideburns. Drab commons and a dagger strapped to his belt – the first weapon I'd seen since coming to the Embassy. Some kind of...servant? Why was he armed? How did he know Giselle?

" _Relax_ , princess," he chuckled, moving around the coffee table to stand in front of me. "You here to help with our thief?" he offered his hand.

 _Princess?_ With a _tut_ , I glanced away as a small smile played on my lips and my heart thumped noisily in my ears. The words slipped out of me, adopting my sister's signature sneer a little _too_ easily. "My _business_ here is none of yours."

"Bah, no games tonight, Sel," he took my hand, tugging me to my feet. "Come on," he pleaded. "Rulindil is _riding_ me to get everything out of our guest. Perhaps he would be more willing to speak with a bit of," the man leered, drawing me flush against him, "gentle persuasion."

He'd kindled my suspicions with _Sel_ , and I turned my head away.

"Get off," I pushed with an indignant huff. _Is there a man in Skyrim that my sister doesn't have a history with?_ "I'll give you five minutes to convince me this _guest_ is worth my time."

It earned me nothing more than a hearty chuckle and a low, mocking bow from the older man. "I'll fill you in on the way," he drawled.

Oh. I _had_ to follow him now, didn't I? As I turned, my mind screamed and panicked; _what are you doing_? Rulindil could come looking for me at any moment. And Hadvar – _Hadvar_! – what would he do if he stepped out of the Third Emissary's office and I wasn't where they had left me?

 _Five minutes,_ I repeated with a steeling breath. _Learn what you can, make some excuse, and come back._

The Nord led the way down the stairs into a cellar. "He's got a wicked tongue, this one," he murmured, pulling a latch near the back wall. A section slid aside to reveal a dark stone tunnel. The man grabbed a torch from above a wine rack, then stepped within.

"Don't they all?" I murmured, feigning boredom.

He smirked back at me wickedly. "Until they meet you."

 _Right_. What _exactly_ did this man expect Giselle to do? I stared at him, expressionless. "Four minutes."

With a huff, he continued on, lighting our way to another set of stairs. "He's given me a name – Esbern – and something about the Rayway. Either he's pining for that sewer he calls home, or we can assume he's holed up in Riften," he said with evident disdain. "But, nothing on the dragons, and nothing of the woman's whereabouts, either. That's where _you_ come in, princess," with a flourish, he opened another door which led into what was unmistakably a prison. Cells lined the walls, and a workbench, clogged with papers and notebooks, was wedged against the outside of the nearest cell.

"Wakey wakey Etienne!" he called out, banging the torch against a set of bars; sparks showered the enclosed space. "You've got a visitor!"

I stared down on the defeated man in the cage. Young, Breton, shackled to the wall, bare chest covered in bruises and thin trails of dried blood. Slowly, with a pained wince, he glanced up through a mop of greasy, blonde hair. "I've told you everything I know, Gissur," he groaned. "Can't you just let me die?"

"Ah, where would be the fun in that?" with a jangle, he – _Gissur_ , I took note – produced a ring of keys and unlocked Etienne's cage. "This is how it's going to work," he crouched down to the shackled man's eye level. "You're going to tell the lady the truth," he drawled, "or she will _make_ you tell the truth."

The young prisoner's eyes widened as they flickered over me in confusion. "I've told them everything," he insisted. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

I opened my mouth to spin a retort, but another cut in before I could.

"We will see about that."

It sounded like my voice, but it wasn't. I spun around in terror to see my sister leaning on the door arch to the prison; her arms crossed. She glanced toward me, passing a wordless message; _stay out of this_ , then she stepped in and glided toward the cell; swift and graceful; mauve silk fluttering as she moved.

Gissur chuckled, low and menacing. "Trust me son, this is no delicate flower come to exchange pleasantries. I've watched her turn a man three times your size inside-out."

With his focus still on the prisoner, he hadn't realised there were now two of us – he had thought _I_ had spoken.

Continuing unaware, he gripped Etienne's chin roughly. "You had better give her what she wants the first time she asks for it."

I paled, mute with shock. No amount of talking could fix this. What to do? _Fus_ and run? Then what – go where? I was deep underground – and below the _Thalmor Embassy_!

"And _you_ ," Giselle strode into the cell without stopping. She flicked her wrists, and ethereal daggers appeared in a silent _whoosh_ of purple. The moment they materialised, she gripped the hilts nimbly and plunged both blades into Gissur's spine. "You are a thorn in my side no longer," she whispered.


	52. Duplicity

_Chapter 52: Duplicity_

Gissur's legs collapsed under him. He wheezed and coughed, but instead of air, blood spurted from his mouth, spraying Etienne's torso. The prisoner flinched and turned his head away, but remained silent.

I clamped a tight hand over my mouth and watched, wide-eyed and horrified as my petite sister held Gissur up on his now-useless knees, gritting her teeth as she twisted her phantom daggers and drove them deeper into his spinal column.

With a shudder and a wet _splurt_ , Gissur finished falling and crashed face-first into the hard-packed floor by Etienne's dangling feet.

Giselle stepped back with a huff; wiped sweat from her brow with an arm as she emotionlessly watched the man convulse below her. With an idle wave of her hand, the daggers snuffed out of existence. "Nobody's going to miss you," she muttered as she crouched, tugged the dead man's dagger from his belt, and retrieved the ring of keys.

" _Why did you do that_?" I spluttered. My feet moved of their own accord and I found myself standing in the doorway to the cell gripping the frame. "He _trusted_ you!"

"He was a sadist who got off on hurting those who couldn't fight back," Giselle fired, flicking an angry glance over her shoulder. "Is that how you thank someone for saving your life?"

She didn't seem to require a response and turned, stepping a daintily-clad foot over Gissur's prone, twitching body. Reaching up, she unshackled Etienne's wrists, catching the man as he crumpled forward in a heap.

"Whoa, there," she murmured, steadying him to his knees. "Hey. Etienne? You're Etienne Rarnis, right?" she crouched down, holding his face between her hands with a gentleness that did not match her actions half a minute earlier. "You've got to get out of here," she hushed. "Go back and tell the old man you ratted out to _run_ , do you hear me?"

"What's going on?" with a wince and a groan, the man lifted his head; opened his eyes a crack. "Weren't you about to interrogate me?"

"Not today. Come on, up you get," my sister smiled and rose, helping Etienne to his feet. "There's a trapdoor nearby," she steadied him against the wall. "Leads to a cave – which leads into the wilds. It's a bit cold but if you steal a horse, you might make it home. Just make sure you tell Esbern that they're coming for him, as soon as you're there."

"I don't know if – my legs-"

"You'll find a way if you want to live," she palmed him the keys and threw the dagger she'd taken from Gissur's belt into its owner's back; clearly intending to make Etienne's disappearance look like a stabbing and escape. "Go, now," she urged, hauling the prisoner past me and pointing to a dirt-covered square indentation in the floor.

The Breton didn't need to be told again. He scurried away, and with a creak of wood and the squeak of a hinge, he was gone.

With a sigh – of actual _relief_? – Giselle glanced down at herself. Spots of blood and dirt marred the expensive mauve silk. With a quiet laugh, she waved her hand leisurely over the evidence of her deeds. A small curl of bright green light appeared; the blood was gone and she was pristine once more. Only then did her eyes find mine, sparkling with triumph. "Back upstairs, before they realise we're here," she suggested calmly.

My sister took a step toward me and I startled back, eyeing her warily and flickering between her all-knowing smirk and her outstretched hand. "What in _Shor's_ name is going on Giselle?" I hissed, my voice dangerous and low.

"For the love of-" my sister bit out, rolling her eyes. "Upstairs, _now_ ," she ordered in a tone that reminded me more of mother than her. She didn't wait for a response and made for the door.

What choice did I have but to follow her? Go down the chute after Etienne and leave Hadvar upstairs in a panic?

As my sister led the way through the dark, tunnel-like rooms and back up the winding staircases, my sluggish thoughts tried in vain to make sense of what I had witnessed. Every time I encountered my sister she threw me anew. Was she working for Ulfric – or the Thalmor the entire time – and doing what, spying on him for the Dominion? She was a _mage_ , not a soldier trained in _espionage_.

 _Forget anything you ever knew about her,_ I told myself sternly.

The journey to the entry room of the Solar took no time at all. My sister delivered me to the bench I'd been at earlier and placed a champagne flute in my hand.

"So," she sat beside me; turned her knees in as though we were about to take tea together and share the latest gossip. "Time to tell me why you're here," she murmured in an amused tone.

I couldn't stop staring at her. How could she be so serene? She had literally just stabbed a man in the back. Wait - "No," my tongue managed to curl out the word. "No - _no_ , first," I held up my hand, shuffling back to put some space between us. "First, you tell me what just happened."

"I've already told you," Giselle leaned back on her hands, smiling to herself as her gaze fell; she stared at her lap. She swung her legs back and forth a little, like a contented child might. Mauve silk swished in the brief silence.

"I just saved your life," she clarified. "Maybe two, if the thief has any courage left."

"It looked more like _murder_ to me-"

"Oh come _on_ , Celeste," Giselle met my eyes, hers brimming with victory. "What do you think Gissur would have done when he realised you weren't me, hmm?" she asked. "Didn't _really_ think that part of your little plan through, did you?" she cocked her head.

I glared at her – because she was right, and I hated that. I'd just gone in and assumed I'd be able to improvise my way out in a couple of minutes.

"So, _sister_ ," she sat forward again, scooting closer. "I've answered your question. Now it's my turn. Why are you here?"

"Stop it," warily, my eyes found hers again. "Who do you _really_ work for? They paralysed and _dragged_ you out of that camp-"

"You never would let me have my turn," Giselle laughed, delighted as she raised her eyes to the ceiling. "All right," she recovered, shaking her head fondly. "We'll do this the easy way."

"What's-?"

A breath caught in my throat as a dullness filled my ears, and I could say no more. A dense, unnatural azure clouded my vision, and then my sister's face materialised through the fog, swimming before me. "Celeste," she said impishly, her voice echoing between my ears, "why did you come to the Embassy tonight?"

My blood boiled, coiling and focussing into a furious _Fus Ro_ ; she was _compelling_ me with some sort of spell. But when my mouth opened to Shout her across the room, calm, compliant words pushed out between my lips instead:

"To save you."

"What?" she frowned, confused, and attempted to blink it off. "Clarify. Why did you think I needed saving?"

"I thought they were torturing you," I couldn't stop myself from replying.

With a flick of her wrist, the blue vanished and I gasped a jarring lungful of air. Just as suddenly as it had been taken from me, my own will was back. "What the _hell_?" I winced; my mind buzzed and faint starbursts bloomed behind my eyes.

My sister stood and took a step back, her widened eyes on me all the while. She was pale and her voice trembled when she spoke. "You need to leave," she glanced briefly toward Rulindil's office. "You're good at pretending. Pretend that the wine has made you ill."

" _What_?" I hissed. My exasperation peaked – _my sister just compelled truths from my lips_ – and was ordering me to leave without _any_ understanding of what was going on with her?

There was a creak from the direction of Rulindil's room; in a flash, Giselle was back and wrapping her arms around me in a fierce hug. "I am so relieved that we were able to have this time together," she simpered in a warm voice that did not sound like her _at all_. The part of me that had been trained to _pretend_ reacted instinctively sensing the need, but I barely had time to lift my arms before she eased back and _noticed_ the Third Emissary emerging from his office. "Ah, the meeting is over. I suppose your fiancee will be wanting you back now," she stepped aside, brushing down the folds of her dress.

"Giselle?" there was a frown in Rulindil's clipped tone.

Hadvar stepped around the Thalmor Emissary. "What's going on?" he asked swiftly in horror.

"What are you doing?" Rulindil asked dispassionately at the same moment.

"Ondolemar told me to come to you," she lifted her chin, smiling lazily as she addressed the Altmer coyly – another mask that I did not know she possessed. "I was bored at the party, and he suggested you might have something for me to do."

"Yes, very well," Rulindil shuffled, glancing toward the stairs. "I told Gissur to look out for you tonight. Where is that witless oaf?"

Giselle's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Hazard a guess; drunk and asleep in the hay?" she asked playfully.

Rulindil huffed; his eyes narrowed slightly. "I'll take you myself," he murmured, beckoning. She obeyed immediately, and he vaguely inclined his head toward me; his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Our chat will have to be delayed," he sighed. "Enjoy the party. Perhaps we shall cross paths at the next."

"As you wish," I conceded; my focus trained on ensuring my voice didn't shake. _He wants Etienne's information more than he wants mine, which means that this Esbern is of a higher priority than Delphine. Or, perhaps he assumes Giselle has questioned me._

Well. She had, hadn't she?

He cast a swift nod in Hadvar's direction. "My regards to the General."

Hadvar murmured a pleasantry that I'm not sure anybody heard.

With an elitist huff about slobbish local servants, Rulindil and my sister glided away. Giselle laughed prettily, completely at ease with the Thalmor, and didn't bother sparing a glance behind her.

She might have been playing a dangerous game with some very dangerous, powerful people, but her utter commitment rattled me as much as her actions. I hadn't realised – hadn't understood – what she was truly capable of until now. _And I am supposed to be the performer._

Hadvar was by my side. He tried to ask a question but I stopped him, placing a quick hand on his chest plate as I watched the Altmer and my sister disappear from view.

Once they were gone, I let out a gasp and covered my face with my hands, muffling a string of expletives that would have made Farkas blush as I turned into his chest. With a sharp pang, the realisation struck me: I was no longer angry with my sister; I was _terrified_ of her.

"What _happened_?" he held me up; his voice a sharp hiss. "Did she hurt you?"

"No," I snapped, lowering my hands. Frustration poured from me and I winced, trying to reign it back. She _had_ saved me – well, technically she had saved Etienne for _Shor_ knew what reason, but in the process she had gotten me out of a situation I probably wouldn't have been able to talk my way out of – before she had used some sort of Illusion spell on me to pull truths from my lips. I didn't know enough about magic to untangle precisely what she had done.

And then her mask had slipped. She had not expected my response and for a second, _I_ had scared _her_.

It had been startling to hear myself say it, but I could not deny it. I had not come to the Embassy to confirm Delphine's paranoid hunch; in that regard I had come to prove the Blade wrong. I knew in the depths of my soul that the Thalmor were not behind the rise of the dragons, any more than the Blade was herself – but my instincts and insight into the matter, for whatever reason, weren't enough for her. She had to have evidence _,_ and I had agreed to do her dirty work to spite her.

Well. It _had_ been stupid of me to agree to this, but she could go and rot if she thought I would put any more lives at risk in _her_ name.

I met Hadvar's concerned eyes. "Can we go?" I whispered. I couldn't speak – couldn't _think_ here. "I'm..." I glanced around the Solar, reaching for an excuse. "I...I think the champagne has made me ill," I whispered in defeat.

With a knot in his brow, he tucked me under his arm and guided me into the open air. A stiff wind sent the snow swirling, and Hadvar whipped his cloak around both of us as a shield from the worst of it. For a moment I wondered how he knew where to go; this was not the indoor path that Brelas had brought us along, but then I remembered that he'd been shown a map, and been briefed properly, before he had been sent in. He was getting me back to the ballroom by the quickest route possible.

Once inside, he rubbed the chill from my arms, ducking down to meet my eyes. "Any better?" he murmured.

I glanced around the elegant ballroom, reeling back everything I wanted to feel. More guests were dancing now. Dean Ateia was singing a soft ballad that I couldn't recall the name of, and her accompanying student had picked up a lute – the strings squeaked as he slid his fingers along the neck to change chords. All was calm – beautiful, even – but when Rulindil and Giselle _discovered_ Gissur murdered in Etienne's cell, and the prisoner gone, it might no longer be. Surely they wouldn't lock the Embassy down? They wouldn't want the powerful people in this room finding out that the had lost one of _their_ prisoners tonight.

"A little better," I lied; my eyes found his, silently asking if we could _leave._ "Productive meeting?" I paved the way for our escape.

Hadvar puffed out an overwhelmed breath. "Yes. I hope so."

"Good," my eyes fell to my hands as I traced a pattern on his arms. "Then, let's get you back to Castle Dour; those scouts are relying on you."

Our exit was slower than I would have liked. On our way to the coat room, Jarl Elisef found me and insisted on introducing me to her neighbouring Jarls; the stern Jarl Ravencrone of Morthal and the rugged Jarl Merilis of Dawnstar. Neither women seemed particularly interested in me, and were even less interested in Hadvar, but Elisef was pleasant company and I let my inner bard control my responses to her. Within, I felt nauseous.

After I gave her some attention I managed to excuse myself. Hadvar caught my arm; he stared at me for a heartbeat. _Sorry_ , his eyes said.

"Oh – Celeste, dear!" a high voice trilled from close by.

I didn't understand Hadvar's look, and faltered in the act of turning toward the person who had called – I was certain it had been Lady Vici. Before I spotted her, he swept down and kissed me, stealing my breath; persistent, and straightaway deep with longing.

He kissed me long enough to earn chuckles from the guests in our vicinity – I even caught one of them muttering _get a room._ My cheeks pinked; Hadvar's over the top, very public kiss was to prevent anyone else from bothering me. His hands wound into my hair and when he withdrew, his pupils were so large that I could barely see any grey around them. He cleared his throat; cast me a somewhat cheeky half-smile before he briefly glanced around the room.

"I think that had the desired effect."

I nodded, trying not to laugh, still recovering my breath as Hadvar purposefully ushered me to the bar. He retrieved my cape; helped to fasten it around my shoulders and lifted the hood, brushing back the fall of my hair so it was tucked within – his movements gentle, but hasty.

Our eyes met; more wordless messages. There was such conflict in him; such passion, confusion and concern. I wondered if he could read my emotions from my eyes and tell me how to understand them, for I wasn't even certain about what I was feeling.

But Farkas would be able to help me there. _What's he going to think of what's happened?_

We walked from the Thalmor Embassy and ran to the coach for the snow fell in thick clumps, buffeted by a gale that extinguished the lanterns in the courtyard and made the trees bend and sway, struggling to free themselves of their worldly tether.

It was a relief to sit in the sheltered coach and settle into Hadvar's arms. I could breathe again, even if I could not form a coherent thought around the storm raging in my head.

 _Tell Farkas and Hadvar what happened_ , was the only plan I could settle on. They could help me figure out what it all meant. Acknowledging that I didn't have to do this alone somewhat soothed me.

Only the howling wind followed us back to Solitude. In the back of my mind, I wondered what I might tell Delphine, and had the thought that perhaps it would be better if I simply never saw the Blade again.

The walk to the inn was a blur. The snow fell just as thickly as it had at the Embassy, and I stared up to the obscured heavens, blinking snow from my lashes and wondering how the barely-clad Etienne would ever survive the night? By now, Gissur's body and Etienne's escape would have been discreetly related to Ambassador Elenwen. Freezing to death was possibly a kinder alternative, if the Thalmor mobilised quickly enough to pursue him.

Farkas opened the door to our room before we reached it; held it open as we bustled in. "You found her then?"

"If you mean Giselle – oh, we _found_ her," Hadvar growled.

My eyes shot up; my heart leapt, but my voice wouldn't come.

"And?" Farkas was wary; silvery eyes flickering between Hadvar and I. "Where'd you stash her?"

"No need," Hadvar said through clenched teeth. "She seemed perfectly happy where she was-"

"No – wait," my thoughts coiled each other; there were things he didn't know. Moonlit silver and stormy grey honed on me in enquiry; one uncertain and the other full of fire. My mouth opened uselessly at first, but they waited – and I managed – "she...saved me."

" _Saved_ you?"

"Sort of," I blinked dumbly.

"Is she drunk?" Farkas drawled in Hadvar's direction.

I crossed my brows at my shield-brother; he was the only person who knew what drunk-me looked like, and _this_ wasn't it. "Let me speak."

They let and remained silent while I explained all that had occurred during Hadvar's meeting.

When I was through, Hadvar strode to me, picked me up, and enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug. "Celeste, how could–? You could have _died_ –" he hissed.

"But she didn't," Farkas pointed out in a grumble.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," Hadvar stepped back to take my shoulders and duck to my level. "I'll take this, all of it, straight to the General," he vowed.

A weight of defeat settled over me. "I don't think you can," I murmured regretfully. "They clearly _want_ it known that they have Giselle, but if the Thalmor find out she killed Gissur and released Etienne, she'll-" I faltered. Well – she'd what? Be tortured, killed, disappeared. We were back to that scenario, then.

Hadvar's eyes flickered with doubt and he stood tall. "Okay," he huffed with evident restraint. "Remember that your sister is responsible for – _many_ deaths, and will be brought to justice-"

"I know," I insisted quickly, nodding for emphasis. "Just – catch her. Make her stand trial and give us some _answers_ ," I palmed my eyes in frustration. Exhaustion was closing in fast – or perhaps my body was finally no longer producing adrenaline in the volumes it had in the past few hours. "That is how we're _supposed_ to do things in the Empire, is it not?" I asked bleakly.

Hadvar's frustration softened. He nodded, barely, just once. "All right, love."

Farkas moved; settled against the wall beside the window. My eyes were on Hadvar, but in the corners, he glared out into the snowy night. "I don't get it," he murmured. "She's been working for the Thalmor all this time?"

"Who can say," Hadvar's shoulders fell as he stepped back; glanced toward the door. "And I have to speak to the General, before it's too late for our scouts," he turned back; found my hand and gave it a squeeze; stared at our joined hands with his faraway eyes full of sorrow. "Farkas, take care of her."

Farkas mumbled something but I didn't catch it as the realisation struck me. At once, my eyes filled with tears. "Oh Gods. This is – you're saying good bye aren't you?" I uttered around the sudden lump in my throat.

His thumb drew slow circles on my hand. "Not forever," he murmured pensively.

"But for now?" I asked hastily, trying to meet his eye. "The General will send you away as soon as you've made your report, won't he?"

Hadvar glanced up regretfully through his lashes; his tone flat. "Our officers are being held in Fort Kastav. A regiment is on standby and the orders were to mobilise the moment we had their location. I'm to lead the escape. I'm sorry," his voice lilted; cracked a little. "If it weren't people's lives at risk-"

I clenched my eyes closed and made myself nod. He was to march on a Stormcloak stronghold, risk his life in the name of others – it would be selfish to ask him to stay but _Divines_ I wished the war would just _end_ _._ "You have nothing to be sorry for," I choked out.

"Here," his free hand ducked into his armour; pulled out a slim sheath of papers, bound in leather. "I don't care what she wants, but – this might give _you_ some answers. Might not."

"What is it?" I blubbed, accepting the document. The words on the title page swam toward me, hazy through my blurred vision.

 _Delphine Comtois, Status: Active (Capture or Kill), High Priority, Emissary Level Approval_.

My tears fled. "How did you get this?" I shuddered.

In a beat, Farkas was by my side, reading over my shoulder. After a brief scan, he began to chuckle. "Oh, good job, soldier."

Hadvar took a step back, smiling humbly as he motioned toward it. "The Third Emissary put a bunch of these on his desk at the end of our meeting."

I paled. Of course he had; Rulindil had intended to question me about her, but – Hadvar hadn't known that! "And you _took it_?" my eyes widened.

"There were more," he admitted. "All about her. Doubt they'll realise they're missing one for a while."

Both he and Farkas seemed _far_ too calm, and I had to close my eyes to suppress the desire to yell at both of them. "If they found this on you," I started quietly, unable to finish the sentence.

"But they didn't," Farkas was holding back his laughter. "Oh, she's going to _love_ this. Let me see," he made a motion for the dossier.

Relinquishing it without a second glance, I closed the space between us and embraced Hadvar in a fierce hug. It seemed that we had _both_ done something really stupid that could have gone _very_ badly at the Embassy.

He stroked my hair; settled me more comfortably against him. "Play your lute for me, okay?" he reminded in a whisper. "Every day."

The idea sent warm, fluttering butterflies to my stomach. "Yes. Every day," I echoed quietly.

"And I'm... _really_ sorry I can't help you ruin another dress," he laughed quietly.

A laugh bubbled out of me too and I leaned up to place a soft, fond kiss on his cheek. "Like you said," I bumped his forehead with mine. "To be continued."

His brief good bye kiss promised _so much_ more, but it was over too quickly, and then I had to let him go. The word _stay_ was on my lips while we silently watched each other from opposite sides of the doorway. In his eyes I read his response; _ask me to stay._

For the sake of the soldiers imprisoned in Fort Kastav, neither of us could speak.

With a small, warm smile and a final squeeze to my hand, he turned and walked away, and I closed the door automatically. I stared at the panels of wood between us, praying that he would return. That he'd knock and be there smiling; his report, and rescue, could at least wait until morning. My fingers arched over the handle, fighting the urge to race after him when the knock didn't come.

"You _gotta_ read this," Farkas called out, breaking the spell.

I blinked across the room. The candles on the table made the plains of his face ruddier than usual. "Um..." I wavered; blinked again. Cleared the tremor from my throat. I had to focus. "Is it Interesting?" I tried again.

"Yeah," Farkas leaned back with a satisfied grin plastered on his face.

My heart tugged me in one direction, but my head took me to Farkas. With a smile to mask the ache in my chest, I retreated to the seat opposite my shield-brother. "Do you think _she'll_ be interested in it?"

"Without a doubt," Farkas pushed the papers toward me then sat back, crossing his arms, still wearing that wide, amused grin.

Casting him a curious smile, I glanced down and read. It was clear this _was_ a volume in many others, for it began as though the writer had been part way through a thought:

 _Her continued existence is an affront to all of us. Any information on her whereabouts or activities should be immediately forwarded to the Third Emissary._

 _Capturing the remaining Blades is our top priority. Regrettably, we have yet to match their expertise on the subject of dragons, which was derived from their Akaviri origins and is still far superior to our own (which remains largely theoretical). The archives of Cloud Ruler Temple, which is believed to have been the primary repository of the oldest Blades lore, were largely destroyed during the siege, and although great effort has been made to reconstruct what was lost, it now appears that most of the records related to the dragons were either removed or destroyed prior to our attack._

 _Thus Delphine and any associates remain our best opportunity to learn how and why the dragons have risen. It cannot be ruled out that the Blades themselves are somehow connected to the dragons' return._

I burst out laughing. "They are after her because they think _she_ is behind Alduin?!"

Farkas chuckled. "Seems like it."

"Let's take it to her, right now," I couldn't stop laughing; after everything that had happened and been revealed tonight – _this_ was too much. This was the _perfect_ end to her ridiculous mission. "I want to see the look on her face when she reads it."

"Same," Farkas stood, took the dossier, and strode toward the corner of the room where our packs were nestled together. "Dress warm, and get into your armour," he called out over his shoulder as he stuffed the book deep into his bag. "Got a bit of a ride ahead of us."

My amusement ebbed as I walked toward the dressing screen, unfastening my cape. "Jarl Elisef will be sad that I've left without saying good bye."

"Yeah," Farkas agreed pensively. "I'll miss her too."

With a snort, I threw my cape at him and retreated behind the screen. Maybe I could write to her before we left.

As though the delicate dress had weighed me down, a sense of relief took hold of me when I stepped out of it. This made thought possible, and my mind, now freed, flew to the monumental task of untangling my sister's motives.

"What is Giselle playing at?" I mused out loud.

"Dunno," Farkas grunted in distaste. "I know she's your twin, but I hope we never see her again."

"Hmm," I was unsure of how I felt about that as I tied the straps of my breast binding behind my neck. "In Rorikstead, she begged me to go to Ulfric. Said that he understood why I was Dragonborn. Tonight, she said nothing of that."

"She wanted you to set her free in Rorikstead," Farkas intercepted. "Probably knew that the Thalmor would come for her before she could blab to the Legion about being sent in by them in the first place."

Frowning, I stretched into a thick pair of leggings. That...didn't feel right, but I couldn't articulate why. "You think she went to Ulfric when she was sixteen, under orders from the Thalmor?" I asked.

"Don't think it matters," Farkas eased. "Doubt there'll be any going back to Stormcloak after tonight since the Thalmor have made her involvement public."

I _hmphed_ in agreement, stewing over the riddle. "It will certainly damage their precious Stormcloak morale," I murmured. But perhaps the blow had already been dealt; she had been outed as an imposter when we had both been present at the battle for Whiterun.

Tying the fastenings down the side of my armour, my eyes traced the wood grain of the changing screen as I mulled over what Whiterun had meant for her role in Ulfric's army. "Farkas," I suggested delicately, "maybe she defected?"

Farkas made a doubtful sound.

"No, think about it," I stepped around the screen. "Have you seen my boots?"

"Under the bed. You think she was made to talk and brainwashed or something?" he continued. "Sounded like she was pretty chummy with the Emissaries and that torturer though. That kind of history doesn't just happen in a couple of weeks."

I shrugged as I padded to the bed, crouched down and reached for the brown leather. "For most people, no," I shrugged. "But once Stormcloak's army knew she was a fake, she would have understood they wouldn't rally behind her."

Farkas tilted his head uncertainly. "You think her place depended on her being you?"

Again I shrugged as I sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on a boot. "No. But it seems more likely that she was made to change sides. I can't imagine how she might have become an agent for the Thalmor while she was living at home with us. And when I met with Stormcloak in Windhelm-"

 _Ulfric_ , I broke off with a shudder, slipping into the other boot with a sharp tug. What of Ulfric's role in her life?

"What – have you figured it out?" Farkas asked.

"It's nothing," I insisted hastily as I heard him approach. "Remembering."

"You okay?" he was standing beside me.

"Yeah," I couldn't meet his eyes; busied myself with my hair, plaiting swiftly.

I had been on the receiving end of his passion for my sister before I had _Fus_ 'd my way out of his arms; he _desired_ her; was vulnerable because of her. Had _that_ died because she could no longer pretend to be me for his army? I doubted it.

After a weighty pause, the bed shifted and Farkas sat beside me, though he had the sense not to elaborate on whatever he was picking up. He shuffled, taking his time to get comfortable; rested his elbows on his knees as he leant forward. I gave him time to organise himself, and his thoughts.

"Why didn't _he_ come for her, then?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," I admitted, loathed to put myself in Ulfric's shoes to find a reason. I glanced to the ceiling; sighed at it when it didn't solve my problems.

He hadn't come for her...because he didn't care for her that much? Because he had to focus on running the Empire out of Skyrim? But – wasn't she _critical_ to his schemes – those _plans_ he had for both of us? He couldn't leave her with the Thalmor if she was important not only to him, but his precious war.

 _Then perhaps she is where Ulfric told her to be._ It didn't explain why she freed the thief, but...perhaps Ondolemar had actually been telling the truth? Perhaps the Stormcloaks made it _look_ like the Thalmor came for her in Rorikstead – which would explain the strange, unnecessary methods employed – and then **gave** her to them. Perhaps it went back even further – maybe they had planned for her to be caught during the battle so she could demand I be brought to her – after all, hunting me down hadn't worked. Perhaps she had thought her words would weaken me; that I would go to Ulfric, so I might understand what was happening to me.

If this was true – then her sisterly pleas in the prisoner tent _had_ been a trap.

"Maybe she's a spy _for_ the Stormcloaks?" I voiced cautiously.

"Spying on the Thalmor?" Farkas asked through a surprised cough. "They're crazy, Celeste, but are they _that crazy_?"

"Sure, it's dangerous," I admitted.

"And _really_ stupid. If there's a book on spying-"

"There are several, actually."

"-then the Thalmor probably wrote it."

"You didn't see her with them," I flashed Farkas a sideways glance. "She's... _good_ , Farkas. Whatever it is that she's doing, she's _really_ good at it."

Farkas swore under his breath. "What did she do to you?"

"I'm not absolving her," I snorted.

"No, worse," Farkas shot back. "You're admiring her ability to lie to people."

"Certainly not," I stood, glancing around the bed to see if anything needed packing. "I'm _acknowledging_ her abilities, seeing her for what she is. I keep underestimating her – I don't want to do it again," I picked up a tunic from the floor; it was Hadvar's. I strode to my pack and placed it inside. When would I see him next? In weeks? Months? Longer still? My eyes found my lute seated on a chair close to our backpacks; an elegant, silent observer.

"All this time I have been questioning how my sister could have gained rank with a battle-hardened Jarl old enough to be her father," I knelt by my beloved instrument; more precious to me now than it had ever been, given the journey it had taken, and the hands it had passed through, to return to me.

Did Ulfric and Giselle have even a sliver of what Hadvar and I shared? It was impossible to know, but I highly doubted it, for there would not have been a force large enough to stop me from going to Hadvar if the Thalmor had taken him prisoner.

I spread out the fur it had been wrapped in, then gathered the lute carefully. "Perhaps I have been overthinking their attachment," I murmured.

"You think?" Farkas asked bluntly; still sat on the edge of the bed. "Let's see, I'm a forty-something asshole and the teenage daughter of my enemy's Thane has been dropped onto my lap."

"Maybe he _did_ simply use her at first," I shot him a dark look. "However their relationship started, it means something to both of them now. And he wouldn't _trust_ her as a General if she was just a means to an end," I sighed at the lute, it's form now obscured by its furry padding. "Plus, I'm pretty sure he knows about the whole," I rolled my eyes and waved my hand dismissively. _The Septim connection,_ I couldn't say.

Collecting my lute in my arms, I turned toward my pack.

Farkas approached; wordlessly held my lute in place as I wove leather strips around to secure it. I was grateful as ever that he didn't press me for more information.

"I wish you or Vilkas had been with me, when I'd been with _either_ of them," I clarified.

"So do I," he growled.

I huffed at the double-meaning as I finished my preparations. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

I shot him a look. "For helping me work through this," I stood, surveying my handiwork. It seemed secure, but only time would tell. I had never needed a travelling case for my lute before, as I'd been in no rush to leave Solitude. But maybe I could look into having a proper case commissioned. For now, this would do, otherwise I wouldn't be able to take it with us.

Farkas said nothing but his cheeks pinked as he collected our packs, effortlessly throwing one each over his enormous shoulders.

"Don't hurt it-!" I chirped, reaching out in panic.

"Hey, easy," Farkas laughed, craning to look over his shoulder; checking for himself. "Your baby will always be safe with me. Kind of looking forward to hearing you play it sometime," he grinned.

The thud in my chest slowed and I lowered my hands. _Baby_? Okay, that was fair. "Every day," I smiled.

"Yeah, I heard," he rumbled fondly.

We did a final sweep of the room then descended to the bar. The inn had grown quieter; the hour was late, and Lisette had wrapped up for the night, so only the dull rumble of late-night conversation and the crackle of the fireplace was there to greet us.

We sat at one of the dining tables and he continued his letter to his brother while I wrote to Jarl Elisef, apologising for my hasty departure. She had seen Giselle at the party, and there was no point in pretending that she had nothing to do with my leaving. So I confided in Jarl Elisef, aware that the note would probably pass through many hands before it reached hers.

 _Seeing my sister has raised doubts within me, and I must speak to my mentors at Hrothgar before I can continue along my path._

I flickered a glance Farkas' way; he was leant over his letter with a look of concentration on his face and a hand tangled in his hair; his quill _scritching_ against the parchment.

With a small, endearing smile, I continued.

 _Farkas and I will both miss your kindness and company. Send a courier to Ivarstead and ask for Klimmek, should you have need of me. He brings supplies and the mail to Hrothgar once a week._

Signing it off, I folded the note carefully. Hadvar had my family's ring so I sealed it with a blob of wax and flattened that with the end of a nearby mead bottle.

"Ready?" Farkas sat back, grimacing at his own work.

I nodded. "You want to seal yours? Corpulus will be arranging a courier for me anyway."

"Not finished." Farkas shook his head. "Letters are hard."

"Letters to _Vilkas_ are hard," I corrected with an arch and a smile, remembering how long it had taken me to finish my own letter to him. "Can we still stop by Whiterun before we make the climb?" I reminded him gently. "That was always our plan."

"Sure," Farkas half shrugged, swinging his pack around and stuffing his letter within. "Maybe I'll just hand it to him, like you did with yours. But first," he grinned – and left it at that.

I returned his grin. _Let's go prove to Delphine that she was wrong._


	53. Demagogue Dreams

_Chapter 53: Demagogue Dreams_

"I _knew_ it," Delphine cursed, slamming her fist into the wall. "The little witch _was_ working with them!"

The dusty shack we had met the Blade in shuddered under the impact; tiny white flecks of paint rained down from the precariously-balanced ceiling, like snowfall.

With the dossier still safe in Farkas' pack, withheld and unmentioned, I narrowed my eyes at the Blade. "You _knew_ she wasn't their prisoner?"

"I didn't say that," Delphine shot me a dark look.

"Then you'd better tell us what you _did_ mean," Farkas grumbled, low and deadly. "'Cause what is _sounds_ like is you knew Celeste wouldn't find her sister in the cells, and didn't bother mentioning it."

Delphine exhaled a violent huff; the very air nearest her seemed to still and tense in caution. "Voicing my suspicions would have brought her pain and I considered it irrelevant to uncovering the origins of-"

"Bull shit!" Farkas barked, drawing a menacing step closer to her. "You sent her in there _to retrieve her sister_!"

" _I_ sent her in there to investigate the rise of the dragons, for the sake of Tamriel!" Delphine admitted sharply, narrowing her eyes. " _She_ went in after her sister."

"The Blades are supposed to _serve and protect_ the Dragonborn," Farkas roared. "But _you_ keep making her go into places that'll get her killed, holding back information that might stop her from making a mistake-!"

I rested a hand on Farkas' arm; the muscles were so tight that I might have been touching granite. I squeezed the unyielding bulk gently.

If I didn't intervene, they would continue talking about me as though I wasn't here, and then probably kill each other. I cared naught for Delphine, but I didn't want Farkas getting hurt on my account.

And I couldn't sing him down, not with Delphine in front of us, so I prayed that my contact would be enough to calm the beast clambering to the surface.

I turned back to face Delphine; a half step in front of my coiled but now-silent shield-brother. Why she hadn't mentioned her theory _was_ irrelevant now that the Embassy party was behind us, though I would never forgive her for withholding it, no matter her excuses.

"What made you think Giselle was working with the Thalmor?" I asked steadily, searching for safer territory; for distractions. "Is that why you thought _I_ might be a Thalmor spy?" I added, recalling the Horn debacle as I stole a glance Farkas' way.

He was rigid and glaring; his focus trained on Delphine. But at least his eyes stayed silvery.

"In part," Delphine conceded, her eyes on Farkas for a stern moment before the icy blue flickered to me. "But that's a story for another time. What did you -?"

"It's a story for _now_ , or Farkas and I leave with your precious evidence," I pinned her with a flat look. "I don't care if it's nothing more than gossip you overheard in that pub you've been hiding out in. I want to know, _now_ , what made you suspect Giselle was something other than a prisoner."

"Okay, I get it – but we can't stay here," Delphine grimly motioned toward the door. "Morthal is too-"

"With the authority that my blood gives me within your order, I _command_ you to explain everything you know about my sister, Delphine Comtois," I cut her off cooly.

She turned to look at me as though truly for the first time; an incredulously slow, fluid motion, like she was moving through a dream. The grimness to her remained, deadlier for its lack of feeling, and at that moment I understood more about Delphine than I ever had. She didn't care about me; didn't care about the wellbeing of the Dragonborn. It was possible she didn't really care if the Passero line had mingled with the Septim's. She had never known a living Dragonborn before me, and she was not really ready for more than a pawn to control. I was alive because I was of use to her, at this point in time.

I held her gaze, ready to walk out and keep walking. If she tried to stop me, Farkas and I _would_ fight her, and we _would_ win. Her admission of purposefully withholding information – and not only that, of allowing me to believe my sister needed saving – was the final straw. I was tired of this riddle upon riddle that my sister had either been caught in or created, and if Delphine had any truths for me, I _needed_ to know them, before I decided if I should leave this woman and all she was supposed to represent, forever.

"Talk," I lifted my eyebrows. "Or our acquaintance ends tonight."

"As you wish, Dragonborn," Delphine murmured. "Take a seat-"

"I'll stand, thank you."

She half-shrugged. "All the same to me," she shifted back to the dusty table she'd been sitting on when we had arrived. "I had a feeling Giselle was compromised years ago, but I was never able to get close enough to her to confirm it."

" _Years_ -? You've known her for so long?" I blinked, confused.

"In a sense," Delphine winced, glancing down, staring at a point beyond the dirt-packed floor in the act of remembering. "We never met. Otherwise I might have recognised _you_ when you stumbled into my inn searching for a mercenary. If I'd realised who you were, and that Farengar had sent you, I would have taken you through the Barrow myself-"

"You're getting distracted," I warned her.

"So I am," the corner of her mouth lifted into what I assumed passed for amusement. "Okay," she sighed; met my gaze with a steadiness that dared me to interrupt her again. "It began with a book. One of your ancestors wrote a _very_ interesting book," she arched an eyebrow. "It contained a few encoded passages I couldn't read, but I refused to abandon a trail that eluded to the continuance of the Dragon blood without explicit evidence that it was false," she leaned back, crossed her arms; settled in for the tale.

Underneath my hand, Farkas' muscles relaxed – not by much, but it was enough for me to let go of the breath I'd been holding. If he was calming down – then perhaps Delphine was finally telling us a truth.

"I went to Farangar, employed him to devise a codex that might interpret it," she explained, "and I _eventually_ traced the writer to what remained of the Passero line. Fired enquiries to one of my contacts in Solitude, wondering if your father knew anything of..." she met my gaze, under her lashes, "your family's deep, dark secret. When your profiles arrived," her widened eyes turned again to the earthen floor, and she shook her head in disbelief. "It was the closest I'd been to fulfilling my purpose for thirty years. I was _so certain_ that Giselle was my next Dragonborn," Delphine sighed to the ceiling.

Unimpressed, I flashed Farkas a glance, but he was a statue; his eyes trained on the Blade; cold and narrowed.

"A young, brilliant mage," Delphine continued, "frustrated by the shackles of Solitude, desperate to leave and learn and discover, experimenting with her friends to push the boundaries of magic, bound to get into trouble if she didn't get proper training, and soon. Remind you of anyone?" she arched an eyebrow.

I frowned. "Should it?"

Delphine huffed; lowered her eyes again. "What are they teaching kids these days? All right," she seemed to be rolling her eyes – at herself? "Long story short, I sent Giselle a message. I wanted to meet her, start up a dialogue, before she attracted...unwanted attention. Mistake number one," she drawled.

"Why?" I let go of Farkas finally and leant against the wall, crossing my arms.

Her tone darkened. "Because I was so relieved to find her, I ignored the fact that the Thalmor were still looking for me. I don't think the message made it to her."

"The _Thalmor_ intercepted it?" I gaped. Had everything that involved my sister somehow been this letter's – _Delphine's_ fault? "Was it...a dangerous letter?"

"It was benign, but," Delphine closed her eyes briefly in what seemed to be genuine regret. "Look. I can only assume. I received no reply from her, and the time came for your sister to begin at the mage's college in Winterhold. I'd already arranged for her to be watched there. But," she grimaced, "my contact...never saw her."

I frowned, shaking my head. "But – she _was_ there. I _remember_ her starting school."

"Let me guess," Delphine clipped sourly. "You received _letters_ from her."

"Of course, and reports from the school," I fumbled quickly, trying to recall. I hadn't been that interested in Giselle's studies, if I was honest. It had been the first time we had been separated for any length of time, and I had felt a vague sense of resentful abandonment when I had thought about her or read her letters.

"Reports from a mage named Ancano?" she asked pointedly. "Advisor to the Arch-mage, who happens to be an agent for the Thalmor?"

I had no idea who the reports had come from, and shrugged. "It happened such a long time ago," I worried my bottom lip. "Are you telling me she _never_ attended Winterhold?"

"That is my belief," Delphine sat straighter. "She disappeared for a little over three months in fact. I intercepted her letters to your family – no. Don't look at me like that," she crossed her brows. "I was worried about her."

My eyes narrowed further. "You didn't even _know_ her."

"And, as it eventuates, neither did you," she glanced away dismissively, "or you might have realised something was wrong," she all but accused, then continued before I could defend myself.

"Her letters confused me. It was clear she _was_ writing them, and that she was content to have everybody believe she was in Winterhold, studying," Delphine's mouth curled downward; she had, long ago, untangled this particular riddle, and the retelling was bringing her discomfort. "She was...smart. I couldn't reason her deception at the time, or trace where the letters originated from. The school term ended and on cue, she returned to Solitude for a week," she murmured. "During that week I was contacted by an old friend via a network I hadn't used for a decade or two. Giselle had been in _Windhelm_ ," she laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "He wrote to me for what was essentially advice; said she was making claims relating to information we had unearthed together – that she was not who he had expected to find-"

"You're doing it again," Farkas cut Delphine off darkly.

Delphine stared at him, unimpressed. "Doing what?"

"Rambling vaguely," Farkas grumbled. "If you're going to say what I think you're going to say, just say it."

"And you have the nerve to call _me_ vague," Delphine muttered in a scathing tone. "I am not in the habit of explaining the past," she glanced back to me.

"Get used to it," I steeled myself, though I had a sickening feeling I knew who it was who had written to the Blade about Giselle. "Start with the name of this friend in Windhelm."

"Isn't it obvious?" Delphine drawled. "Ulfric Stormcloak."

"I see," I _had_ thought correctly, but still; a roaring filled my ears as anger shot through me; my hands clenched into fists. "And how is it that you came to call him _friend_?" I managed.

Delphine half-shrugged again. "Friend might be too strong a term. Before you were born, my search for the Dragon blood led me to Hrothgar, where Ulfric was studying the Way of the Voice," her faraway smirk sent a shudder through me. "I studied with him for a short time, conducting my own research from the Greybeards' library. Was where I found the book your ancestor wrote, actually."

"No – wait," I had to cut in again. "The Greybeards let _you_ study at High Hrothgar?!" my head spun. "Do...you know how to Shout?"

She shot me a warning glance. "How do you think I got the Horn? Any with the discipline to ascend and remain may be tested and accepted by the Greybeards. Us _mere mortals_ can't learn a Shout in a single breath, but you've seen Ulfric use his Voice. Did you think he was the only person in Skyrim who had ever studied with them?"

"Of course not," I frowned at her – though I couldn't imagine this stern, calculating woman taking lessons from the steady, kindly Master Arngeir _at all_ , and made a mental note to ask him about her when I returned.

"Shall I continue?" she asked with a hint of mocking. "Or do you require a demonstration?"

I shot her a look; one that made her glance away with a small, victorious smirk.

"Yes, for some months, Ulfric and I were what you could call colleagues, before the war called us away and put my research on hold," she picked up. "He has a mind made for strategy, and I had him put it to what I sought. Over time, his devotion to Talos made me feel I could trust him," she shook her head at herself. "Mistake number two. You must understand, I had been running for so long, hadn't trusted anybody for so long," she shuffled uncomfortably, reconsidering. "I told him everything about my quest to find where the Septim line had been hidden after the Oblivion Crisis."

 _So **this** is how he claims to know why I've become Dragonborn_ , I wondered?

"And, he surprised me." Delphine sighed with a pleading glance to the ceiling. "He was on board with my investigations; so willing and ready to help. But of course, it was for his own design."

"Design?" Farkas drawled.

Delphine's eyes lowered and irises clouded with memories. "He is not a man to do anything by halves – and never has been. A living Septim was almost as good as having Talos Himself by his side."

Farkas made an unimpressed _hmph_ sound, and I checked him briefly. Was he reacting to the name _Septim_? My shield-brother's silvery gaze was still locked on the Blade, and he still looked as though he wanted to tear her arms off. Perhaps the connection hadn't surprised him; perhaps he had made it for himself on our journey to Hrothgar after all, during that exasperating conversation we _hadn't_ had about Tiber Septim.

Or perhaps it truly didn't matter to him whose blood flowed through my veins.

"Okay," I tried to focus on what I wanted to know; we were getting off track again. "Giselle disappeared for a couple of months and then turned up on Ulfric's doorstep, saying that she was...what, exactly?" I felt the need to clarify. "The lost and rightful Empress of Tamriel, come to help him liberate Skyrim?"

"I wish I could show you his letter, but I burned it after I read it." Delphine continued. "Ulfric didn't mention how long she had been at the Palace of the Kings; only that she _had_ been there."

"Were they _together_ at this point?"

Delphine threw me a baleful glance. "Why should _that_ matter?" she fired.

"Don't you _dare_ raise your voice to her," Farkas growled. "If Celeste asks you a question, you answer it."

"For the love of-! Whether they were sleeping together or not during those three months – it was a detail he deemed not worth documenting," she spat. "What I _do_ know is that they shared several private conversations. Whether those conversations were conducted in a war room or post-coitus is _utterly_ irrelevant!"

"All right!" I hissed. "You've made your point. What did she tell him?"

"That she had dreamed of their alliance," Delphine's tone evened out and she grimaced.

" _Dreamed_?" I spluttered.

"She told him she has the Septim's gift of foresight," Delphine added swiftly. "That she had experienced," the Blade searched, waving her hand, "nightmares, she had thought – fire and bloodshed – dreams that linked Septim and Stormcloak, and that only together might they hope to free and unify Skyrim with Cyrodiil, and throw off their Thalmor oppressors."

"And he _believed_ her?" Farkas scoffed.

"She was playing him?" I cut in quickly. Prior to the Embassy party I would not have believed Giselle capable of convincing anyone of anything, but now...well. Perhaps she _had_ been able to persuade Stormcloak of a certain legitimacy. "She knew of his time at Hrothgar, and told him exactly what he wanted to hear?"

"Ulfric wasn't sure," Delphine shrugged. "I think he wanted to believe her, but – look, normal, _rational_ people do not write of their feelings _all the time_ ," she shot me an annoyed look. "He stated the facts, of what they had spoken of, and simply wanted me to confirm her story, before she returned."

"Did you?"

"I didn't reply."

" _What_?"

"I couldn't," Delphine defended quickly. "It was too risky, and there was a chance his letter might have been bait intended to trap me. Ulfric was a fool for writing of it to begin with, but he was taken by – well," she flickered me a look. "What did you say? _Exactly what he wanted to hear_."

My jaw locked in frustration as I stared at the woman. "You believe my sister was intercepted on her way to Winterhold, was convinced to work for the Thalmor, then went to Stormcloak to ensnare him?"

"That's the theory," she smirked. "We're lucky the Divines have a sense of humour. If she _had_ been made Dragonborn after all, there's a chance we'd all be calling her Empress, now. Or be dead," she considered with a tilt to her head.

"How _fortunate_ ," I posed through narrowed eyes, "that _my_ profile was boring, or the Thalmor might have seen fit to abduct _me_."

"Precisely," Delphine completely missed the point of my accusation. "So, _Dragonborn_ ," she all but mocked, "are you satisfied? Can we go back to saving the world or-?"

"The Thalmor aren't responsible for Alduin," I cut in blithely. There were still gaps – large ones – in my sister's past, but I had drawn enough from Delphine to mull over for a long while.

Delphine squinted. "What did you discover, precisely?"

"How did you put it?" I motioned toward my shield-brother. "A _very_ interesting book."

He shot me a sideways glance; _you sure about this?_

I nodded, trying to suppress a smirk, and felt Delphine's gaze flicker impatiently between us.

Farkas returned the smile and swung the pack down onto the dusty table-top with a _thud_. With a fastidiousness I'd not thought him capable of, Farkas extracted the contents one piece at a time, laying each item carefully down next to the other. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at him – or rather, Delphine's irritation.

At about the tenth item in, Farkas stood tall. His features blank, he stared at a swathe of tan fabric in his fist; Hadvar's tunic. "Oh," he chuckled, replacing it carefully with a lopsided smile. "Wrong pack."

" _Ugh_!" Delphine roared, throwing her hands in the air. "Is the fate of Nirn a _joke_ to you-?"

"Fate of the Dragonborn seems to be a joke to you," he muttered; his shoulder rolled dismissively. "Maybe I'll find it faster if you tell Celeste who Esbern is," he met her glare with his own, "and why _Giselle_ risked so much to save _him_."

The Blade's expression fell; her face paled. "She... _they_...?" she swallowed; her eyes, suddenly bizarrely uncertain, found mine. "Did you see him?" she whispered. "He's alive?"

"Who is he?" I asked, speculating her reaction.

The Blade settled against the table, her eyes trained on her shaking hands, and beyond. "One of our number. A Blade, I mean," she confirmed, closing her eyes.

I frowned at Farkas; Delphine took a controlled breath, then continued.

"An archivist, but during the War-" the icy-blue lifted with a flicker of imploring, but her tone was as hard as ever; "Where is he?"

"Hiding out in Riften. How is it that Giselle knows he's alive if you don't?" I was tired of giving Delphine information for free; she could figure out exactly where in Riften for herself.

Delphine closed her eyes; her hands closed into fists. "How indeed?" she murmured regretfully. "I can only assume _Ulfric_ is the answer."

"How would _Ulfric_ -?"

"Do I _look_ like I have that information?" Delphine bit out with a curse. "If she was with the Thalmor, she would _not_ be trying to save Esbern. Unless it was another elaborate _trap_ ," she hissed, clenching her fists.

"Okay," I breathed weightily, settling against the table for myself and accepting the dossier as Farkas handed it over. "Here," I passed it to her, before we became distracted by yet another mystery wrapped in paranoid hunches. "This is proof that your theory about the dragons is wrong."

Spots of colour returned to Delphine's cheeks as she stared at the title page. "How did you manage to extract _this_?"

"Not important," I murmured; I didn't want her thinking Hadvar would aid her in her personal quest to incriminate the Thalmor for whatever was wrong with the world. I pushed off the table; turned to face her, too weary of her to stay and witness her reaction to the contents after all. "Good bye, Delphine."

Her focus was on the document. "Mm. Do what you have to do," she didn't bother looking up. "I know where to find you, when I need you," she murmured, distracted.

"Right," I rolled my eyes. Truthfully, I was not surprised.

Farkas' heavy footfalls followed me out of the abandoned shack. He closed the door, and we'd not taken two steps across the frost-bitten spiny grass when there came a resounding _thump_ ; a fist, meeting the precarious wall. The Blade's voice was loud enough that she might have been standing beside me; a furious, incredulous, " _What_?"

I glanced to my shield-brother and his satisfied smirk undid me. Despite Delphine's convenient web of lies and all she had revealed in order to gain the dossier, I found myself laughing quietly, suddenly giddy that our time with the deceptive woman was finally over.

Because yes – she _could_ find me at Hrothgar if she believed that I was necessary to her endeavours. But I didn't owe her anything, and would not have her drag or send me anywhere again.

Farkas and I walked in companionable relief to where we had left Misty and Patch, smiles wide as we mounted up and directed our horses toward Whiterun. We had families and friends to visit before we returned the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to the Greybeards and got back to my training. When I allowed myself to think about the Greybeards, I realised I was actually looking forward to talking with Master Arngeir about what my journey to locate the Horn had revealed to me about my purpose.

And as for my sister? For all her faults, I had to acknowledge that she was capable of taking care of herself. I was confused by her motives and true allegiance – and baffled by what she had told Stormcloak and why he, a man of absolutes and strategy, had believed her, a teenager claiming dreams of destiny. But whatever Giselle's game was, she was not defenceless, and I could leave her in the Embassy without feeling a weight of guilt that I was abandoning her.

The eastern horizon was pink, and the thin, shadowed clouds were lined with bright, warm gold. My smile turned bittersweet. Hadvar was out there, looking at the same dawn, calculating when to lead his team into an enemy fort. We had my sister to thank for those lives he was about to save, too.

A silent, snowy owl whisked across the lightening sky; effortlessly weightless.

 _Giselle has been instrumental in securing the information you have come for tonight._

The owl suddenly darted down at a steep angle, in pursuit of one final meal before the sun rose.

My heart clenched in fear and I gasped in a lungful of frozen air. "No!" was all I could choke.

"Hmm?" came the immediate reply from Farkas.

Misty protested with a rude snort as I tugged on the reigns and drew her to a halt, only to turn her back along the path we had been travelling along. I had seen a signpost for Windhelm a little way back. "It's a trap!"

"What's a trap?" he called, kicking his horse into action. "Celeste?"

"If Giselle is a spy for Stormcloak, then they will _know_ what she told the Thalmor about Fort Kastav," I called back hurriedly. "Hadvar and his people are being set up!"

"Slow down!" Farkas ordered, reaching for my horse's reigns as he drew up beside me. With a mighty tug, he stopped both of our horses in their tracks. I threw my arms around Misty's neck as the horse reared up in frustration.

"You trying to get yourself killed?" Farkas boomed, throwing my reigns toward me. The leather hit me on my arm, but I barely felt it.

"No," I clipped, fumbling for them, but I let the horse find her footing. "I'm trying to save him!"

"You can't just – run off like that!" he fired, whipping his disarrayed black mop out of his face with a frustrated shake. "Hadvar knows what he's doing. Give him a little credit."

Slamming my eyes shut, I reigned back my response; took a deep breath. "I trust him, Farkas," I exhaled sharply, meeting his gaze steadily. "I do not trust _her_ ," I grated; my eyes narrowed to slits.

Farkas' anger softened into what appeared to be sympathy. "He probably already thinks it's a trap, after all you went through at the Embassy."

"No," I shook my head, determined. "He doesn't know all we now know. Hadvar would not put lives at risk like that if he did."

"Okay, sister," Farkas passed a stamina potion to me. "You've had a long night and no sleep. But, you call the shots, so – have a think first, then tell me if we turn east?"

Uncorking the little green bottle with a _pop_ , I nodded. "I must get a warning to him," I murmured, watching the glorious dawn unfold as I upended the bottle; swallowed the thick liquid with barely a grimace. I was growing used to the taste, and I wasn't sure if I should be settled or concerned by that.

As I finished the bottle and took a moment to catch my breaths, errant thoughts tried to dissuade me from interfering in Hadvar's mission. I would be a hinderance; I would _definitely_ blow his cover. It would be a stealth operation; none of my Shouts could help (could they?) and Hadvar was more than capable of facing whatever the Stormcloaks threw at them with the team he'd been assigned. I was worried about the unknowns; the what ifs.

After a pause, Farkas let out a low chuckle. "All right already. Stop your bellyaching. I'll go."

"This isn't _bellyaching_ ," I arched an eyebrow. "And – what?"

He smirked. "I can make it to Fort Kastav faster on my own. Make sure...nobody's sneaking up on them," he outlined.

Anxiety twisted my belly; I stuttered a confused laugh. "But – what about Whiterun-" I uttered.

"Morthal's not far – hire someone to take you to Whiterun from there."

"But – I need to get back to Hrothgar, I can't _stay_ in Whiterun-"

"'Course not," he butted in. "Get Vilkas to go to Hrothgar. He can take a turn watching your back. I can watch Hadvar's for a bit. Keep him company, til he gets sick of me," he shrugged. "He carries a lot of loneliness 'round with him, you know?"

A sharp ache filled my chest, tightening at the casual acknowledgement, doubled by the thought of Farkas suddenly leaving me. "Yeah. I know," I whispered.

Why would he offer such a thing? Did the bond between our inner demons extend to Hadvar somehow – no, that didn't make any sense. Perhaps Hadvar had earned my shield-brother's loyalty for handling the Embassy debacle with such aplomb. And yes, I had asked Vilkas to watch over Hadvar in the past but the circumstances had been different – Hadvar didn't know about their curse and would never understand why Farkas was dogging his every move, unless my shield brother became a soldier. The idea of _Farkas_ joining the Legion was ridiculous – and with Hadvar on special assignments that put him on solo missions, it simply wouldn't work.

While my head spun, I managed a quiet, "You aren't _serious_ , are you?"

"We're family." With an easy, sideways smile, Farkas added openly, "What good is family if we can't look out for each other?"

If I could have hugged him without falling off my horse I would have. I settled for a tearful laugh. "He wouldn't want _anyone_ to join the Imperials on his account."

"Eh?" he shot me a confused look. "Who said anything about joining the army?"

"Okay, then," I hurriedly added, "Yes, I want him safe. But I don't want _you_ to go."

"Can't have it both ways," Farkas shrugged. "Think about it like this; High Hrothgar is more Vilkas' scene," he tilted me a small smile.

"Is that what this is?" I laughed, while deep within, a tension uncoiled. "Your resignation? Hadvar's life of adventure is so much better than mine?" I teased.

"There'll be more ale where Hadvar's headed," he admitted with a grin.

Bemused, I shook my head. It was almost impossible to let grimness settle in with Farkas nearby, but the ready mirth sobered. "What about the Companions?" I asked quietly. "They need their Harbinger."

"Yeah," Farkas drawled, turning his eyes back to the road. "But she's gallivanting around Skyrim, isn't she?"

"I'm _not-_ "

"Aela'll cover Vilkas," he cut in with a laugh, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "C'mon, Celeste. Imagine him in that library, huh? He'd love it."

Leaning out of reach and swatting him away, I finally understood why he might have offered – and why he seemed to have thought out all of the problems I might bring up. As ever; it wasn't all about me, or my wants and needs, and the reminder relieved and steadied me.

"You're worried about him?"

"I always worry about him," Farkas glanced toward the horizon. "It's...his turn. With you, I mean. Only fair."

"Won't you suffer?" I asked gently.

"Nah," Farkas grinned at the road. "I've got a better hold on it than Vilkas. Always did have."

 _Not recently_ , I thought, but kept to myself with a frown. "If this is what you want, I won't say no. But...Vilkas might. And," biting my bottom lip in worry, I added, "Hadvar's not going to be happy about you leaving me in Morthal."

"Yeah," Farkas chuckled fondly. "Reckon they both might have a thing or two to say about it, but they'll get over it. We should probably make it sound like it was your idea."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever you think is best, brother."

There was a pause, where Farkas cocked his head and waited.

I lifted my eyebrows at him expectantly. "What?"

"Wow," Farkas finally admitted with a chuckle. "That was easier than I thought it'd be."

"What was?"

He shot me a knowing sideways look, then cracked a smile. "C'mon. There's a road in the valley that forks close to Morthal. I'll take you there first."

"Lead the way."

I matched the pace Farkas set, and for a time, we rode in silence. The road widened and the clumped ice either side eventually browned to mush as the marshy land surrounding Morthal flattened.

My mind ticked over this latest development; for a time, Farkas would look out for my Hadvar, if I would look after his brother. I could live with that. These extraordinary people who I had known for only a few months were all essential to my life; their happiness and safety, essential to mine. Hadvar was my home, the centre around which I circled, but Farkas and Vilkas, Lydia and Sigrid were part of it too; the foundations, without which I might quake and topple. And what Farkas had said was right; we had to look out for each other. Not everything and everyone had to revolve around my Dragonborn duties.

Morthal was shrouded in morning mist with the tops of the tiled roofs visible, but mirage-like. The sight brought the realisation crashing down; my shield-brother and I would be parting at any moment, and I would be walking into this hazy village on my own.

"Thanks, by the way," I broke the silence hastily, rallying my courage. Farkas turned with questions in his eyes, and I gave him a small, grateful smile. "I _will_ feel better knowing that you are watching out for Hadvar. And it will be good to give Vilkas a...reprieve," I added thoughtfully.

Farkas clearly picked up something of my prior musings. "Now you're getting it."

We drew our horses to a halt at the fork where we would part. 'Getting it' didn't make saying good bye to Farkas any easier, and once we had dismounted, I choked out my regret at not being able to play my repaired lute for him after all.

"Yeah, shame to miss that," Farkas sighed, then hesitated. "Can Hadvar sing?" he turned, heaving down my pack and lute from Patch, and securing it to the back of Misty.

A bubble of laughter left me and I looked down to blink back unshed tears. "Ask him yourself. What are you going to say to him, anyway?" I cleared my throat.

"Easy," Farkas tightened the saddle straps with a gentle tug, then reached into his own bag; dug about for a moment. "The truth. With Giselle's allegiance uncertain, it's possible she was setting him up, and might keep trying to set him up."

" _Highly_ possible, given what happened between them at Korvanjund," I murmured, glancing to the eastern horizon. _Not to mention our own animosity..._

"Mm," Farkas confirmed, facing me and holding his arms open. "Better go."

I fell into him and tried to breathe as he crushed me into a hug. "Thank you," I squeaked.

"Thank _you._ 'm gonna miss you, sister," he grumbled, pulling back; large hands still on my shoulders, and holding a sheaf of papers.

"Same," I stared up and tried to smile when I met his silvery eyes, nodding to what was unmistakably his letter to his brother. "Want me to give him that?" I sniffed.

Farkas nodded, handing it over. "Don't let Vilkas give you a hard time about this."

"I won't."

"And – straight to the inn, okay? Called the Moorside, I think. You should be able to hire some muscle there."

"Okay."

"But don't pay them in advance. Half now, half when you reach Whiterun."

"Farkas," I stalled him with a gentle laugh. "I'll be fine."

"You'd better be," he grumbled as he tousled my hair.

"Get _off_!" I swatted again.

He mounted up, smiling gently, and made a soft clicking sound as he turned his horse away and angled toward the sun.

I watched on with a surreal sense of disconnect, squinting against the sudden glare as my amusement waned. It had happened so quickly; one minute we had been laughing in relief over the state we had left Delphine in and _then...now,_ we were saying good bye.

 _Farkas can only make sure Fort Kastav isn't a trap if he gets there in time._

 _Yes_ , I nodded to myself, lifting a hand as Farkas turned back and lifted his from the top of the crest that _would_ part us. Farkas had to go at once, or not at all.

Once I could no longer see him, I secured his unfinished letter in my bag, then turned and walked my horse toward Morthal. I wasn't tired – the stamina potion had taken care of my fatigue for now – but I still felt drained.

The quiet, foggy township only enhanced the feeling, and for a time the world echoed my mood. There had been so much action for the past few days – and it was suddenly over; I was suddenly alone.

 _It's not over. Get to Whiterun, go back to High Hrothgar. Time to **be** the Dragonborn._

My eyes widened at the task ahead – the conversation I would need to have in a day or two. Master Arngeir and I needed to have a long chat about my true purpose and then – well. Perhaps _then_ , my _real_ Dragonborn training would begin.


	54. Mist and Shadow

_Chapter 54: Mist and Shadow_

I suspected that dawn did not arrive willingly in Morthal no matter the season. The air was thick with an icy humidity that sheared through my lungs and made my chest ache. Though the sun had risen, the village was shrouded by craggy mountains looming to the east, and would remain darkened for several hours still. Flimsy masts with sails hanging limply alongside swayed in the dense fog that pooled on the ground, obscuring what must have been a watercourse.

And all the while, in the corner of my eye, there were flickers of swift movement.

I didn't _think_ it was a dragon – it was too small, and they did not tend to hide and observe in this way. Whatever it was, it was as fast as one, for whenever I glanced in its direction it was already gone, leaving only trails of curling mist in its wake.

 _Probably a curious fox._

I shivered as we shuffled further into the village, huddling closer to Misty, collecting my bow and quiver from her back. I took a firm grip of the former and slung the latter over my shoulder with a resolute, steadying puff of air that clouded before my eyes. Farkas would blame himself if I was picked off by something or someone three steps into the village. The sudden surge of vulnerability would have been laughable had the close air not been so oppressive.

Misty seemed as unaffected as ever, perhaps feeling at home amongst her namesake greyness. This thought _did_ amuse me, which warmed me, leaving in its wake an unexpected swell of pride in _her_ fortitude – or whatever it was that allowed her to maintain calm when other horses were skittery and nervous.

My cold fingers fumbled with her reigns as I tied her to the post outside the inn, and she immediately began drinking from a trough of water with splinters of ice clinging to its sides.

I lugged down then heaved up my pack, unwilling to leave my lute outside, watching the inn while my hands moved automatically. Wood, thatch, stonework around the base, perhaps bordering an underfloor heating system. It looked like any other village inn, but I could imagine walking into the Moorside and disappearing. A dangling sign bore a circle of knotwork and a half-moon complete with scowling face whose lone, mocking eye weighed me as I inched closer.

 _The sign is not judging you._

Rolling my eyes at myself, I leapt up the stairs and rubbed my hands together, stomping my feet on the door mat in an attempt to warm up.

I needn't have bothered – a stifling heat brushed my cheeks the moment I pushed the door open, and –

" _They said explore Nirn.  
To many lands I traveled.  
Never feeling like home_," a low, rough voice crooned nearby, accompanied by the heavy-handed patter-thump of a drum.

Frowning in confusion, I turned toward the resident bard. Without a lute to harmonise, _Lamentations of the Lost_ 's melody fell into monotony, and this rendition was no exception.

I spied the Orc sitting in a darkened corner opposite the entryway. His hair was swept back in waves in romantic bard fashion, but his clothes were threadbare. An odd combination, for it told me nothing of what to expect of him, and I regarded the bard with curiosity. I caught the shadow of a lute propped against his chair; the drum was nestled between his knees.

He stopped playing and glanced up as the door swung shut behind me with a _click._ Muddy-brown eyes met mine; his tusks pressed into his top lip as he smiled as though he had been expecting me. "Want me to stop, m'Lady?"

My frown doubled. "Why would-?"

"Hey – don't you be hassling a customer with your – your caterwauling," a sharp, feminine voice called from across the tap room. Hurried footsteps shuffled; I did a double-take and spotted the publican of the otherwise empty tavern. She was a middle-aged Redguard with greying-black hair tied into a hasty plait. "I hope Lurbuk didn't bother you, honey," she approached, dishrag in hand, which she shoved into her apron, stained with age, not drink. Wiping her palm discreetly on the same apron, she then extended it to me. "We're a bit short on options out here – and nobody _wants_ a residency in _Morthal_ now, do they? The name's Jonna."

"Celeste," I replied swiftly. "And – there's no bothering occurring," I assured in an offhanded manner. Unease prickled at my neck as I shook her hand. Thumbing toward the wrapped parcel strapped to my pack, I offered the pair a tentative smile. "I'm always happy to talk to a fellow musician."

"You're a bard?" the publican stood taller and gave me the once over with rust-coloured eyes. "Want a contract? Food and board provided on any night you can draw a crowd, and you keep all your tips."

 _Gods_ , her current bard was _right here_! A quick glance told me the affront had not affected him, at least on the surface. His lute was now in his arms, and he plucked away at the strings, humming to himself.

The high E was flat, and I winced as he continued to hit it. "N...no thank you. I...have a contract with the Companions, actually," I answered quietly with my eyes on the Orc. What was his game? Why didn't he stop and tune his lute – or care that his employer had so little regard for his services?

Was this what it was to have a small town contract? You were treated like dirt, paid only if a crowd happened to be passing through – and simply got used to it?

The Redguard whistled. "Whiterun, hey? Very cosmopolitan. Well, you know where to find me if you want to see how the swamp-dwellers live," she snorted, turning away and motioning toward the bar. "Anywho. What can I get'cha honey, a bed or a beer? Or – no, what is it you _proper_ bards drink? Snowberry port?" she tittered a laugh. "Reckon it might help Lurbuk hit his notes if I pay him in that?"

Lurbuk sighed and stopped plucking, instead testing each string slowly and methodically. "Sorry, m'Lady," he murmured quietly. "I'm all thumbs today."

"Well, _really_ ," Jonna rolled her eyes. "You're supposed to be a professional. You don't _admit_ to-"

"Actually I'd like a song," making a snap decision, I dug into my coin purse and retrieved a golden Septim.

Jonna's eyes fell to me, hard and curious, but I maintained the bard's gaze. "It's been a _long_ day, and I would welcome a ballad," I stepped toward him. "High E," I whispered as I placed the coin in his palm.

With a small, barely discernible shake to his head to dislodge some confusion, he closed his fingers around the gold and cracked a half-smile that pressed his right tusk into his upper lip. "Right you are, m'Lady. What'll you hear?"

"It's Celeste," I reminded, sitting at a nearby bench and offloading my pack, gently settling it so my lute wouldn't be pressed against. "And yes, I will have that snowberry," I belatedly replied over my shoulder, facing my pack to unlace the ties. "But juice, not port," I smiled as I peeled aside the furs. The body of my lute gleamed in the low, flickering orange firelight; a beauty to behold.

Jonna's reply was delayed and delivered in a low tone that only _just_ masked her confusion. "Comin' right up, honey."

"Thank you," I called in cheery nonchalance; the best defence against her offhanded unkindness, which my peer seemed to embody. "Your A is out, too. Here, mine was tuned recently at the College," I drew my instrument into my lap, positioning my fingers on the neck.

Lurbuk made an appreciative sound as his eyes flickered over my precious lute. "Where'd you come by _her_?"

I smiled as I traced one of the silvery paths on its body with a fingertip. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"A song for another day, hmm?" Lurbuk chuckled, but left it at that. "High E, you think?"

 _He can't hear it?_ "Mm," I plucked the string, then glanced up and waited.

 _Twang_.

With another wince – I couldn't help it – his flat E resonated about our quiet corner. The two notes were far enough from each other that the conflict trembled in the air. "Got it?" I asked.

"Mm," the Orc leaned over his lute, tuning the peg and testing quietly. "Can I have the note again, m'Lady?"

"Sure."

"And the A?"

I plucked the string for him to use as a reference. The clear note thrummed through me; my fingers flexed as I suppressed the urge to _play_ for myself, as I had promised Hadvar I would.

Jonna had delivered my drink and left before Lurbuk's lute was properly in tune, but once the task was done, I lifted the tart drink to my lips eagerly. "Is it difficult to keep your programmes up to date here?"

Lurbuk sat back, blinking in confusion for a beat; his hands relaxed around his lute. "Not so much," he shuffled. "The war brings soldiers occasionally, and they bring stories with them."

I sipped, nodding politely. My mind flew to Fort Kastav at the reminder of my own soldier. Had Farkas made it to him yet? _Was_ the Fort Kastav mission a trap my sister had laid?

"Plus, Morthal has its fair share of intrigue. Can't say we're short on tragedy of late," he continued dryly.

"Hmm," I tried to draw myself back before I fell into a cycle of worry. "What kind of...intrigues?" I hazarded.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," his muddy eyes lowered – suddenly melancholy. "What about that song you paid for – while I'm in tune?"

A bard that didn't want to gossip? Lurbuk _was_ an odd one; he seemed to follow so few of the conventions. "Okay," I rested my lute on my lap, folding my hands over the strings. "Bard's choice," I insisted.

"A rare treat," Lurbuk dipped his head over his instrument. "Stop me if its not to your liking."

He began to play slowly; his thick fingers heavy on the strings as he strummed. It was clear he had never majored in lute, but merely picked up what he could, because he had to.

" _Deep silence, the iron gray time, Seeping into bones and roots_ ," he started to sing quietly.

 _Angalayond._ I hadn't heard it in a _long_ time – because it was rarely performed, being somewhat grim and longer than the multitude of songs about the seasons. But there was a gravity weighing on Lurbuk that had nothing to do with the way his employer treated him. Without knowing the details – I had to hope this song might help him work through whatever ailed him.

It was not the most refined performance, but there was music in Lurbuk and I could sense his yearning with every tremor of his voice. I listened attentively, smiling appreciatively when he drew the ballad to a close. "What made you sing _Angalayond_?" I couldn't help but ask. "It's so...sad."

He replied with a cheerless smile; "A desire for second chances, I suppose. You mentioned you have a contract in Whiterun?" he changed the subject.

 _It's grief_ , I realised, so suddenly understanding his reticence that I turned my eyes down to hide my flush for not noticing sooner. "Sort of," I drew my cup to my lips, reluctant to mention the Dragonborn or Thane business while I was out on my own. Better if everyone merely thought me a wandering bard on her way home from some daft pilgrimage.

I swallowed and the sudden realisation that I _was_ alone crashed over me like a wave determined to tug me under its icy currents.

"I'm a Companion," I stared into my drink; a distraction from the sudden panic. _You do this for Hadvar's sake. You're the Dragonborn. You aren't half-bad with a bow. If all else fails, you can Fus Ro and run._

The deep red liquid reflected the nearby torchlight with a thick glimmer of orange. "When I'm at home, I play for them. Sometimes," I murmured, recalling with regret how much my music had annoyed Aela and Skjor. "Actually," I shrugged in an attempt to ward off _everything_ as I cleared my throat, "that's kind of why I'm in Morthal. Do you know of any mercenaries for hire in these parts?"

Lurbuk shook his head. "Not lately. The war drew most able-bodied folk away and the village has become a bit of a ghost town since. But – why would the Companions of Jorrvaskr need a mercenary?"

" _They_ don't," I clarified. "I do," I rolled my eyes. "Shield-brother's orders."

"Interesting. They must value you," the Orc murmured thoughtfully, though he probed no further. "Try the Guardhouse," he offered with a nod to the door. "You might be able to persuade one of the Jarl's own away for a trip like that, if the price is right."

"Of course. _Money_ ," I murmured, sitting back to finish my drink in the warmth before I re-wrapped my lute, thanked Lurbuk, asked for directions, and shouldered my bag.

Morthal seemed even more insubstantial after the deep, flickering saturation of the inn and it took me several minutes to locate the Jarl's Longhouse in the dream-like landscape. Highmoon Hall was constructed of wood and thatch like every other building in the village, though it was taller, flanked by Jarl Ravencrone's knotwork standards and topped by clumps of ice; the remains of snowfall, brown on the edges and crusty with age.

I kept my head down and veered away from the Jarl's grey-clad guards slouching sentry by the closed door. I wanted to get home to Whiterun as fast as possible, and if my arrival was reported to the Jarl, it would not take her long to realise I was the Dragonborn she was introduced to at the Thalmor party the previous night.

Lurbuk had told me the Guardhouse was past and to the left of the Longhouse, rimmed by a boardwalk on the southern bank of the lake. If I stuck to the boundary of thick mist that still obscured the waterway – and watched where I placed my feet – apparently I couldn't miss it.

The silence was gradually interrupted as I drew nearer to my quarry by a dull buzzing. At first I thought it was in my head – a product of replacing sleep with stamina potions perhaps – and shook it to try and dislodge the sound.

Then suddenly, the sound stopped.

"C'nay help ya, doll?" someone slurred.

I froze, my eyes darting up to lock onto the frame of a thick-set man in cheap, iron-plate armour sat on a bench outside the Guardhouse. _He_ had been the source of the buzz – a tuneless humming.

He chuckled. "Jumpy li'l mouse, aren't ya? C'mere," a huge hand patted at his knee. "Can 'elp steady those nerves."

The smell of ale wafted toward me and I scowled. My fingers flexed around my bow handle, and it took all my strength to keep my hand lowered. "I don't think you're in a position to steady _anything_ ," I stepped by him; lifted my hand to rap on the Guardhouse door.

"Don' let the fancy words fool ya," the man swayed as he stood; his arm swung toward my waist. "I still got plenty solid for a sweet li'l thing to rest on-"

He was so inebriated that his movements were sloppy; I stepped aside with plenty of time to spare as his hand swooped and caught only air.

I arched an eyebrow at the Nord; got a proper look at him so that I could report him to the guards if I had to. "You don't want to try that again," I warned sharply, taking in dark blonde hair and bloodshot amber eyes. He swayed several heads above me and his arms were thick like ancient tree-trunks, but where I might once have felt fear, I felt only a thread of indignation.

The Nord cracked a grin; another waft of cheap ale reached me as he puffed a laugh. "Mm, slipp'ry li'l mouse," a foot thumped forward and with another sway, he leaned in. "Ain't gonna hurt ya."

I stepped back into the unyielding wooden bulk of the wall – and with another sudden lurch the man was close – _too_ close. His arm crashed above me, caging me -

 _CRACK – THUMP - **SPLOOSH**._

\- and the Nord was down, splayed on his back in the shallow water below me. I stared, wide-eyed, as he groaned long and low, curled on himself and cushioning his groin with his hands.

I sidestepped, then took another step away – and another. My heart hammered and my cheeks flushed – my anger thrummed inside me like hundreds of bees trapped in a jar, demanding to be let loose. I kept my flashing eyes down and _begged_ myself not to run away, because running would be noticed.

 _Get Misty. Leave Morthal._

My bow thrummed from impact, clenched in my fist – my arm had reacted before my tongue could summon _Fus_ , and my bow handle had connected before I could think, striking the man in his most sensitive area with enough force to send him staggering back and over the edge of the boardwalk.

"Wait," I could hear the man groaning – and water splashing as he tried to stand.

"I don't think so," I muttered to myself, bypassing the Longhouse.

"You hear that?" one of the guards by Highmoon Hall asked the other.

"Yeah," the other guard replied. I could feel her eyes on me as I hastened past. "Sounds like a man's overboard. And, seems we have a newcomer in town, fleeing the scene of the crime."

With a nervous sigh I kept walking, but I hadn't taken two steps before the summons came;

"Hey you – girl! What's your business in Morthal?"

I could hear running feet – the guards were _pursuing_ me. I stopped in my tracks; closed my eyes and took a deep, steeling breath. "Me?" I asked; I had to say _something_.

"Yes, _you_ ," the pair stopped, one either side of me; one ducked, peering, his dark eyes searching my face, for what I couldn't tell.

I frowned, leaning back a little to glance him up and down. "Um. Yes?"

"She's clean," he told his associate.

 _Clean?_ I bit my tongue to temper my reaction; demanded that I calm down and _talk_ my way out of this.

The guard stood tall and crossed his arms. "Sounds like there was a bit of a watery scuffle back there. You want to tell us your side of the story?"

When I opened my mouth, the calm, steady words of a trained bard gratefully spilled from my lips. "As you wish. I went to the Guardhouse looking for help actually," my voice wavered as my tongue wound an entreaty, "and I...was attacked, by an inebriate. What you heard were the sounds of my self-defence."

" _Attacked_?" the woman frowned; her head swung as she glanced in the direction of the Guardhouse, for she could not hope to see it through the fog. "Benor's _awake_?"

The other guard groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Apologies, miss. We thought he'd gone to sleep it off. Did he hurt you?"

"Evidently not," I replied steadily with a short bob of my head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I will retrieve my horse-"

"As you like," there was a note of regret in the woman's voice as she stepped aside. "But – if you _are_ in need of assistance, the Morthal Guard are not _all_ oafish drunkards."

"Thank you, but I have decided I can manage on my own," I replied steadily, turning away.

Again, I felt their eyes on me as I continued toward the inn.

After a beat; "Go haul that good-for-nothing up by his ear," the woman hissed, "before the Jarl hears about this."

Oh, it was _definitely_ time to leave Morthal; the guards planned on _protecting_ the man I'd left writhing in the lake.

With Misty being so tall, I had to mount her before I could tie my pack to her back. Sat backwards on my saddle and with my hands occupied tying knots, I counted my breaths to fill my mind with something other than replaying what had just happened.

"That's a strange way to ride."

A child's voice, over my shoulder. A breath caught in my throat and I whipped my head around. A curl of mist snaked away from me.

"Okay," I puffed. " _Definitely_ time to leave."

When I turned back to my pack, checking my knots but doubling my efforts, a cool wind whispered by my ear, rustling my hair.

"Are you some kind of adventurer?" the voice came again.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Slowly, I sat tall and closed my eyes. _Just a kid_ , I schooled. I was jumpy from the altercation outside of the Guardhouse, was all.

"Something like that," I replied; my voice trembled and I cleared my throat. "Are you?" I returned.

And I waited. The silence was dense, but in the space of a few heartbeats, I was rewarded. "Sometimes," came the reply from the space to my left.

I opened my eyes, shifting them left without moving my head – and this time, I saw her. A girl, short and pale, though I could make out no more detail in my peripheral vision.

It was a relief to actually see her – I had been spooking myself, what with the fresh adrenaline. With a smile, I turned to face her. "And the rest of the time?" I queried politely.

She was several years younger than Lucia with blonde hair plaited either side of her small, thin face and large, curious eyes, but the morning mists made her seem as insubstantial as the rest of the township. "Sometimes I'm here," she frowned as her eyes flickered over me, as though gauging my reaction. "Sometimes, I'm nothing."

I wanted to frown – what an odd thing for a little girl to say – but made myself keep smiling. "I'm actually a bard," I told her, for I was uncertain of how to respond. "Not _really_ an adventurer," I wrinkled my nose. "Are you cold? There's a nice fire in the inn."

She shook her head vigorously. "No fire."

"But it will-"

I was cut off by the sound of running boots against hard-packed earth and a call; "Hey – girl – you still there?"

With a gasp, the little girl's eyes widened, and we both turned toward the sound. "Hello?" I called out. It sounded like one of the guards.

In the corner of my eye, the child vanished – and when I glanced in her direction there were only swirling mists.

 _What is going on in Morthal_ , I thought in exasperation?

The booted feet reached me – the male guard from earlier. "You are still here," he looked me up and down. "Uh – you know you have to be facing the other way to ride that horse-"

"I know," I waved my hand dismissively. "Did you see where the little girl went?"

He stopped short; cautious. "Girl?"

"Yes. A little blonde girl, about four years old," I glanced to the last place I had seen her. "I think she lost her way in the fog, she seemed very confused," I bit my bottom lip in worry – wishing I had dismounted to catch her before she had darted off.

"I see," the guard sounded grave. "Yes, I know her. That's Helgi. You needn't worry about her, she won't hurt anybody."

I turned to the guard, my brows crossed. " _Hurt_ anybody?"

He grimaced. "Best you turn the right way around and be on your way, Miss. I'll see you safe to the edge of the village."

I baulked. "You're... _escorting_ me out of Morthal?"

"Yes," the guard hissed through his teeth, glancing warily either side of him. "Please keep your voice down, Miss," he urged. "A young woman's voice will attract their attention-"

Sitting tall on Misty's back – albeit still the wrong way around – I squared the guard with a hard expression. "Take me to Jarl Ravencrone at once," I ordered darkly.

"I would advise against bothering the Jarl," he tried through clenched teeth. "Come. I'll take you to the outskirts," he motioned urgently. "For your sake, Miss – forget what you think you have seen."

"And I would advise _you_ ," making up my mind – there were simply too many wrongs to turn my back on – I dismounted, settling my bow and quiver more comfortably around my shoulders, "against making the Dragonborn ask a second time."

He eyed me up and down. "D...Dragonborn?" he stammered. " _You're_ the one they're talking about?"

"The one _who's_ talking about?"

"Everybody," he mumbled as he turned away, motioning for me to follow. "That changes everything. Thank the Gods you have come," he sighed wearily.

–

Perhaps it had been naïve of me to presume I could pass through a village without being drawn into some web of superstition, given the mythology that girdled the title _Dragonborn_.

The torchlights were buffeted by the breeze and the furious faces either side of me flickered like grotesque masks as the _mob_ I had unwittingly inspired surged onward toward a nest of vampires who had been plaguing the village. Armed with only my bow – I had rented a room from Jonna, so that I could leave my lute safely behind – I felt alarmingly vulnerable.

 _Why did you do it,_ I asked myself again? _Why did you go to the Jarl?_

I searched the inky heavens for answers, but they delivered me no insight. The horizon was pale grey; the sun had set perhaps an hour earlier, and as with dawn in Morthal, twilight was a lengthy affair. The same was true of Riverwood of course, and I had thought the prolonged evenings beautiful; romantic even. In Morthal, the looming darkness surfaced a sense of frustrated regret.

 _Vampires_. Honestly. Had Farkas been with me he would have _smelled_ them, I was certain of it, and we could have avoided the place and been back in Whiterun by now.

 _But Hadvar might have been captured, or worse,_ I sobered. _And the ghost of little Helgi..._

My vision clouded and a lump swelled in my throat. No. _No_. How could I even dare to lament this time, _her_ time as a setback, a _hinderance_? I did not deserve the name Passero, much less the title Dragonborn if I was to behave so selfishly. A little girl had lost her mother and then her _life_ to this scourge. They were _important_ and they had been _taken_.

I brushed away my tears in frustration. _Grieve later._

As with the death of my parents, I pushed the sorrow aside.

"There it is!" Thonnir, the lumberjack leading our party hissed, waving with his torch hand toward a shadowed mound in the distance.

The sight of the large man did not inspire confidence. In his other hand he gripped his chosen weapon – an axe, but not a battleaxe – a generic, cheap wood-chopping variety. The rest of the villagers carried pitchforks, shovels – one was armed with a blackened frying pan.

With cries of triumph, the townspeople surged on. The freezing mists of the marshland snaked around my legs; grabby tendrils unable to gain purchase and tug me into the bogs. I pushed through, my eyes on the dark cavern before us, determined to bring at least _this_ sad story to its close before I returned to my Divines-given destiny.

Whatever _that_ truly meant.

The crowd lost some of its vigour when we reached the outside of the gruesome cavern.

" _Demons_ ," an aghast whisper came from somewhere behind us. "They'll kill us all," another barely-audible cry sounded above the murmurs and the sound of hurried, frantic footfalls.

The flickering torch lights reflected off fresh blood on the rocks by the entrance; caught the human skulls hanging from threads of hair over the entrance. I swallowed back nausea as I caught sight of a smaller skull with its blonde hair in two little plaits either side.

"We finish this now!" Thonnir turned to face the mob, his eyes wild and full of tears. "What are you doing?" he hollered desperately.

I turned swiftly as the mob spun me around; moving all at once, but in the wrong direction. "No!" I called after the retreating forms; my eyes wide with horror. "Find your courage!" I rallied.

There was a dull _thump_ as one of the number fainted and dropped to the ground. With a heave, another threw up.

Shame flooded me - in them, and myself for judging them. _They are not soldiers. Not Companions. They are frightened. Leave them._

I turned back to Thonnir to voice this, and found his eyes full of fear and betrayal.

"What now?" his words cracked.

"Never mind them," I mustered resolution, retrieved an arrow and placed it, ready to fire. "Are _you_ with me?"

His watery eyes found mind; his fingers grasped the axe handle tighter. "Til the Divines take me, Lady Dragonborn."

"Only one song ends today, Thonnir," I threw my torch down by the entrance and stepped between the bones littering the earthen floor. "The vile song of Movarth Piquine."

It was a name that had tickled a memory the moment I had read it in Alva's journal, but I couldn't recall how or why.

Thonnir put down his torch and we stepped into the darkness; paused to let our eyes to adjust.

 _Vampires have much better eyesight in the dark,_ an unhelpful little voice piped up. _You'll be picked off in seconds._

 _Shut up._

 _You really think you can take on a vampire overlord and followers – in the dark – with a lumberjack?_

 _I have to,_ I swallowed, squinting as something moved in the tunnel.

Something orange. Flames. _Torches_. Perhaps we weren't going to have to proceed in _complete_ darkness.

The merest hint of light was fortifying, and I turned to Thonnir, lifting my finger to my lips. Words Vilkas had spoken before we had gone in to Driftshade rose in my mind, reminding me that yes, two _could_ attack and take down an entire fort of adversaries, if they were clever about it. And I had gotten a _lot_ better with my bow since then.

"We observe before we attack," I whispered. "I'll pick them off," I lifted my bow slightly by way of explanation. "You...just...cover me for now, okay?" I urged.

 _What happens when there are two or three, or more, standing together or even within earshot of each other? Shoot one and then what? Thonnir is not Vilkas._

Thonnir nodded; his eyes flickered uncertainly to the dark passageways ahead. His face was suddenly pale; his expression less certain, and it was clear that the reality of what we had charged into had caught up to him.

It was to his credit that he didn't turn and run, as the rest of the town had, but my stomach churned with guilt for allowing him to come with me.

The floor and walls were slippery with blood and the dark tunnel directing us toward the mere hint of light at the other end seemed to take an eon to inch along. My nostrils burned from shallow breathing and I wanted to gag on the irony funk hanging in the air, but the fear of being heard and _eaten_ swallowed my noises. Over and over again, I told myself that the smell would help us, because it would mask our own scents. Keep the vampires from smelling our approach and setting up an ambush. The lifeblood of those who fell to the coven would protect us so we could stop _this_ from happening to anyone else.

At first, Thonnir and I only encountered lone people wearing the remains of common garments, motionless and with glazed expressions on their faces as they guarded the way and awaited their next command. They were thralls, I supposed – barely alive and held in trance to fulfil the whims of their masters. Alva's journal, read only hours earlier had detailed their eventual fate; when vampires tired of their servants, they drained them of blood then released them from the spell controlling their will. The spell itself was as cruel as those who cast it, freeing the mind long enough for awareness and pain to flutter in, before their spent bodies broke down into dust.

 _They're already dead,_ I assured myself, trying _not_ to think about the beating hearts or thumping veins each of my arrows pierced. _You are doing them a kindness._ Being subservient and given no leave to speak, each thrall toppled with only a dull _thump_ to the sticky earth – and released from the spell by death, their remains crumbled and sank before Thonnir and I drew close enough to retrieve my arrows.

Gratefully there were no junctions in the cavern, or I suspected we would have become lost. The lack of alternative pathways also gave us no where to hide – no where to run but backwards – if we alerted anyone to our presence.

The tunnels began to widen, and makeshift furniture broke up the otherwise grizzly signs of habitation; crates lined with furs that must have been beds, but all were empty. The rooms brightened, or perhaps my eyesight improved. Large, iron candelabras laden with thick drips of wax, each containing fat, flickering candles interspersed the wall torches, set on tables or benches spread with goblets and sharp, glass knives, glinting wetly as the tiny fires played with the smooth surfaces.

Stepping out of the tunnel into a large, sparsely-lit cavern, Thonnir and I saw our first vampire; tall and pale with a shock of wavy blonde hair and wearing a long, ruby-red robe.

"No, _no_ , you idiot – you can't wash linens with furs!" he berated a short Nord woman, shaking a fistful of soggy material in her face.

The woman blinked.

With a defeated huff, the vampire inspected the garment in his fist. "The blood in the cloth has _destroyed_ the fibres – were you raised in a barn?" he threw the material into the woman's face.

With a splat, it landed – then dropped to the floor. The woman glanced down, merely blinking again; a wet trail of suds dripped from her chin.

The vampire stood back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course you were. Why am I even _trying_ to reason with you?"

Casting Thonnir a glance – he gave me a short nod – I lifted my readied bow and took aim at the creature's back. Vampires could only be killed by a wooden stake to the heart, right? Or was that a myth as well?

Well – the arrow shaft was made of wood. It was time to find out.

With a quiet exhale, and a mental prayer to the Divines that my arrow would be true – and enough – I fired. It soared, whispering through the dank air –

"What was that?" the vampire turned on the spot, now facing us.

Thonnir and I froze.

The vampire's eyes darted around the tunnel and in his lowered hand, a crackling green spell coalesced. "Show yoursel- _aghh_!"

My arrow struck true, bisecting his chest, and the spell discharged with a fizz. Shrieking in dismay, he stumbled back, landing on the thrall. "Get it out, get it out!" he cried desperately; his voice echoed around the small chamber.

 _Damn it!_

Thonnir nudged me but I was already in the process of aiming another arrow. My heart thumped noisily in my ears as I drew back and fired.

This arrow pierced the vampire's throat and he staggered back again, crashing with the thrall woman into a dresser.

The vampire's eyes shot up; honed in on me. Wide with realisation and horror, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed. There was a gurgling sound, and he lurched sideways.

"Kyeeeeeeah!" the thrall woman screamed, ducking underneath the wounded vampire's arm and drawing a battleaxe as she charged toward us.

"Your turn!" I called furiously to Thonnir as I drew a third arrow. In the process of placing I stepped backwards, trying to give the man some space to swing.

 _Thonnir crouched down and cowered._

He gibbered something, but spoke to the ground. I couldn't hear his words over the woman's battle-cry.

Cursing, I re-aimed and fired at the closer of our adversaries – the rabid thrall. With a _thunk_ , my arrow pierced her forehead and she crashed backwards, legs flying as she tumbled.

"Get _up_ ," I ordered the lumberjack, gripping a handful of tunic and hauling. He was like stone; I tugged desperately, glancing at the vampire, who was still alive, but slumped on the floor. "Come _on_!" I hissed urgently.

"Leave me!" Thonnir begged. "I couldn't protect Lae, and I can't protect you-!"

A crackle of sound from behind us; a sharp tang to the air. I knew that smell; Giselle had made it often enough showing off at home, lighting candles with a flick of her wrist. We had seconds. Twisting my hand in his tunic, I leapt sideways.

" _Wuld_ ," I whispered. The word thrummed through my throat; vibrated as it pushed me through the air, dragging Thonnir with me. Thrown off-balance, he fell, crashing down onto the hard earth as a plume of fire flew over our heads and landed with a _whoosh_ at the end of the tunnel; the blood on the wall fizzled and the rock turned black.

The vampire had recovered and if I didn't end him soon, he would either kill us both, or alert the entire coven to our presence – if the spell hitting the tunnel wall hadn't already done so. The realisation struck me; I couldn't use _Fus_ in here - it would draw all the vampires and thralls in our vicinity straight to us.

I would have to make do. I stood; turned; trained my eyes on the vampire. "Stay behind me," I commanded Thonnir quietly.

The two arrows I had fired stuck out of the vampire's chest and throat and he appeared to be in a great deal of pain, hunched over and stricken. He might once have been a Nord, but the skin of his face had sunk around his eye sockets and his cheekbones were too high, too sharply defined. Another ball of orange pooled in his hand as he watched me. He tried to say something – a threat perhaps, from the look in his eyes – but all that emerged from the pale slit on his face was a dribble of blood.

As I drew another arrow – surely _three_ would finish him – he released a spell. I ducked, taking cover behind a chest of drawers, and in the corner of my eye, Thonnir dogged my movements; crouched down behind me.

There was a wheeze – and then a shuffling sound. _Footsteps_? Eyes widening in horror, I peeked around the side of the drawers, confirming that yes, the vampire was hobbling toward us – his hand outstretched as the flames continued to intermittently shoot from his hand.

I was out of time – to fire an arrow, or to run away, with or without _Wuld_. This one would put the cave network on alert. Either he had to be taken care of now, or we would have to retreat before we were killed.

I darted to the other side of the dresser, throwing my bow over my shoulder and grabbing Thonnir's axe on my way past. Before I could think about what I was doing, I stood, and with a cry – part frustration, part desperation – flung the axe toward the vampire.

Doubtless he hadn't expected me to stand, let alone throw something at him. The vampire didn't see it coming – and the spiralling axe hit him in the knees. With a lurch, his legs flew up and he fell. The flames spell discharged and the vampire landed hard on his face, skidding across the floor as his hands flailed to find purchase.

 _Last chance_. _Do it or die tonight_.

Using _Wuld_ to propel me forward, I retrieved the axe in the space of a heartbeat. Before the vampire had done more than push himself up on his hands, I swung it down, splitting his back open.

He hit the ground; his arms flailed again, and if he could have made a noise, I'm sure he would have screamed. Droplets of blood flew up; my cheeks were wet and the even sharper smell of iron made my nostrils flare in protest. I lifted the axe and swung again, crashing the blunt side of the axe head into the vampire's spine.

When he moved this time, it was from the force of the axe rather than any will of his own. I left the axe where it lay and stood back, grabbing for my bow and fumbling for an arrow with shaking hands. I managed to place it, even managed to aim at the unmoving blonde head lying face-down in the blood-soaked dirt.

For seconds that dragged as though minutes, all was silent and unmoving but for the ragged breaths that left my mouth. I stared at the back of the vampire; stared at what I had done. Watched as the body shimmered and crumbled into dust. The axe _thunked_ against the now-gritty floor as the form dissolved and returned to the earth.

" _He was a sadist who got off on hurting those who couldn't fight back_ ," Giselle's voice drifted; taunted me.

I swallowed down nausea as I watched, _certain_ that the dust would reform if I turned away.

"You did it," Thonnir broke the spell with a relieved whisper.

With a small start, I glanced the lumberjack's way; took in his bashful expression and the deeper guilt in his eyes.

I lowered my bow and stood tall. "Go back to your son, Thonnir," I said gently.

Thonnir's cheeks pinked. "But – what about -" he motioned onward, deeper into the cavern.

With a sigh, I stepped forward; retrieved the axe from the small pile of ash. Handing it to Thonnir, I forced a smile and shook my head. "I have it covered," I spun, winding confidence I didn't feel into my tone. "Your boy needs you more than I do."

Thonnir nodded slowly as he accepted his axe and slung it to his belt. "If you think it best, Lady Dragonborn."

"I do," I took a step away and fixed him with another smile. "I'll finish up here, and see you back in town."

 _Because if you stay, you will die_.

It did not take much more coaxing to convince the man to leave. Once he had departed for home, a spike of panic rocked me.

 _You think you can do this alone?_

 _Why not_ , I challenged the voice? I had done everything myself thus far.

So I pushed the voice aside. To turn back was unacceptable, unthinkable, and I would never forgive myself if more families were torn apart because someone _might_ hurt me. I could be stealthier on my own; I could run, and I could Shout. If pressed, I could _Wuld_ into the night, and return when they least expected me. I had learnt much with the Companions; much since I had left Solitude.

 _I can do this_ , I schooled, turning to peer deeper into the cave network. _I can save the rest_ , I insisted.

Perhaps it had been naïve of me to presume I could pass through the fogs of Morthal untouched; that this muddy piece of Skyrim and its people's plight would roll off me like water off a duck's back because I had bigger fights to fight in bigger places than this.

And yes, perhaps it was exceedingly conceited of me to presume that this problem was my problem; that Skyrim's ails, large and small, ended with me. Perhaps too many delusionals had told (and not told) me who my ancestors had been; what _they_ had achieved despite mountains of adversities before them.

These were deeper thoughts for another time. During that moment after ending that horrible and somewhat ridiculous vampire, my thoughts centred on one person, one focus; Helgi. The little girl who'd watched her mother burn by her father's weakness, who'd lost both parents and then her life at the whim of this foe.

And I hated it. Hated that I hadn't been here to protect her or been here sooner, for whatever good it could have done. Hated that she was already dead; that all I could hope to achieve was to send her on to an afterlife I prayed would be kinder to her.

Whatever the cause, my path was set. Tomorrow I might have a mercenary or a shield-sibling by my side to ease the load, but today – tonight, I walked alone.

My pursuit of Movarth Piquine took longer than I would have liked, but time was, in its own way, on my side. Several dead vampires and stamina potions later, hours after I had entered the cavern with Thonnir, the sun must have risen. I had no way of verifying so deep underground, but as though on cue, the vampires retired to their crates, leaving only their thralls on alert.

The resting vampires each took a single, precise arrow through the heart to crumble into nothingness, and thralls were _easy_ ; robotic in their movements and slow to react, like the draugr Faendal and I had encountered so long ago in Bleak Falls Barrow. The two adversaries weren't so dissimilar, tenuously tethered to their worldly shells in the indefinite service of another.

Thralls seemed to always expect a full frontal attack with screaming and swinging – an attack they could meet head on with brute force. When my arrows struck true, they toppled without a sound. When my aim was off and they didn't – when they moved after I had released an arrow, I would run back the way I had come, or hide amongst the furniture and shadows, until their brief, frenzied search turned up nil. After a time, they would retreat to their prior post, seeming to have forgotten about me – and I would aim more carefully, and fire again.

Eventually the tunnel became more structure-like with walls and a smoothed ceiling; the furniture became older, richer, and more elaborately carved. When I reached an opening bordered by thick, ancient-looking beams of wood decorated with beautiful scrolls of knotwork, cracked and smoothed with age, an uncomfortable itch prickled the back of my neck; this vampire I was labouring to face was _old_. How long had he resided here? Why had he only begun to infiltrate Morthal _now_?

The doorway led to an upper balcony that arched over a cavernous hall. The dining table was set for formal dinner with fine silver plates and goblets that reflected the hundreds of candles suspended overhead in a polished silver candelabra.

"Does the vigilant of Morthal arrive at last?" a strong, deep voice from within the room below asked.

Standing tall and still, I searched the extents frantically with my eyes. The room was clean – impeccably so – and had at first glance been empty. The dove-grey flagstones were lined with chalky-white veins without a speck of blood to mar the smoothed surface. The walls were faultless panels of mottled tan stone, interspersed with dark carvings pressed into recesses, each sporting a rendition of the grotesquely sneering Molag Bal.

One chuckled; a dry rasp that echoed off the dining room walls and sent a chill down my spine.

Then a carving shifted. "Oh, _wrong question_. Listen to that heart flutter," the same voice commented fondly.

The echoing quality to his voice subsided as the form stepped forward. What I had taken for another carving had been a tall, broad, bald vampire draped in steel-grey folds of soft, fine material – perhaps silk, or perhaps something even finer, with a criss-crossing belt of tan leather at his waist, holding up heavy-looking bronzed swords, glowing faintly with a threatening, deep scarlet. His skin was grey and papery and his slit of a mouth curved upward. Sharpened fangs peeked out below his upper lip as his ruby-red eyes glinted as they found mine. "You appear to be missing an angry mob," he quirked an eyebrow.

I opened my mouth – but another spoke before I had the chance.

"Not missing," feminine tones; older and amused – _this_ voice I recognised. From under the balcony, a woman with chestnut-red hair, scantily clad in leather and yellow cloth sashayed forward. The long-dead eyes of Alva turned up. "They ran away, didn't they?" she murmured thoughtfully.

Sudden fury coursed through me at the sight of her; the _reminder_ of what she had done. My fist clenched tight around my bow, and it took all of my will to keep from drawing, firing, and sealing my fate. _Calm down_ , I schooled desperately. I couldn't fight two vampires, particularly two who were looking straight at me. I was lucky they hadn't already cast a thrall spell on me. For now I had to watch, listen, _hope_ , and wait for some opportunity.

"I believe that is also the _wrong_ question," Movarth wiggled his fingers toward me, grinning. "Listen to the _fire_ roaring in her chest. Where have you been hiding her, Alva?"

Alva turned, tittering a laugh. "Oh, she's not one of mine, Master. She's a stranger. Wandered into town this morning, claiming to be the _Dragonborn_!"

"Dragonborn!" Movarth echoed in understanding, lifting his chin and closing his eyes. He took a deep breath; I suppressed another shudder. He was _smelling_ me, drinking my scent in to _learn_ about me.

"And not just Dragonborn," he waved his hand a few times, as though to waft me, or more of my smell, toward him. "Who are you, child?" he opened his eyes. "Is _that_ the right question?"

Rooted to the spot, I stared. _Question_ ; his bizarre obsession with the _right question_. What did he hope to learn? How I could have possibly made it this far? How I planned – hoped – to kill him? Whether I was worth turning, or thralling, or eating?

 _If a student doesn't ask the right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure._

The memory – a quote – sunk into my thoughts and with a rush of recognition, I remembered how I _knew_ him. _That_ was why Movarth Piquine was familiar to me; I'd read about him in a book – he was the subject of _Immortal Blood_. Reaching a snap decision – because this was all I had that might keep me alive a moment longer – I slung my bow over my shoulder and stepped forward into the flickering lights; rested my hands gently on the balcony railing. "I could ask the same of you," I squared him; my face a mask of dispassion. "Legend has it that you once hunted that which you have become."

"So she speaks, and we find you have read a book," Piquine bowed a conceding, somewhat mocking nod. "Congratulations."

"Yes," I returned quietly. "Most children in Skyrim have read the story of the vampire hunter who was betrayed by his mentor," I swallowed; my throat was parched, and I cleared it hastily. "I'm sorry."

In the corner of my eye, Alva turned curiously between her Master and I, but Piquine's eyes narrowed as his smirk widened. "You think I bear regret? Require sympathy? Do you believe you can _reason_ with the _monsters_?"

While my heart thumped frantically, fooling nobody, I managed an outward smile. Did his eras give Movarth insight; had he found my deeper uncertainties nestled within the beat of my heart and breath of my lungs?

"Ah," the vampire's amusement tickled his words. "The _right_ question."

"Master, she's here to _kill_ us," Alva reminded him dryly. "She already killed everyone else on her way here," the woman shot me a frustrated look. "Why are we entertaining the main course?"

"For that service, she has my eternal gratitude. They were a weakness that plagues us no more," Movarth waved his hand dismissively. "It is not often that I praise my food."

With a whisper of unnatural wind, my bravado fled as mass loomed behind me. "Perhaps it is a sign, that I should keep you." Grey silken folds fluttered around my arms as a finger, cold and hard as ice, trailed around my chin; a touch barely there.

I dared not fight the command, though the compulsion was driven by my fear, not a spell. I repressed a shudder as I found Movarth's eyes; bottomless pits, glinting with eternal fires.

"Pools of azure and the favoured of Akatosh?" he murmured; stepped closer. Rock-solid against my back, his drifting fingers closed around my throat; gentle, but with unmistakable purpose as he tilted my head. A sharp, claw-like fingernail drifted across my trachea. "A splash of red here, and the coronation would be all but complete. Tell me your name, little blue-eyes."

My eyes slammed shut as his mouth ghosted my neck; "Tell me your _real_ name."

 _He is too close; too old, too strong. You have lost your chance._

"Speak, Dragonborn," he urged in a rasp, loosening his hold to stroke my throat as though to coax my words from me. "Ask me the right question, and your fears will vanish; as insubstantial as the mists the creature below us calls home."

"Master!" Alva's voice came; offended and scandalised.

 _Insubstantial as the mists_ echoed through my mind; prodded at my fear pointedly.

My eyes opened in startled realisation; _there_ was my way. " _Feim_ ," I whispered from the depths of my soul, stirring the snaking pool of knowledge caged within.

With a victorious swell of brightness, I dissolved, and was tugged _back._ No _,_ back wasn't right, for I didn't move. I was under and over and somehow between the space I had occupied, and at the same moment, my emotions scattered.

Movarth's arms closed around nothing. "Whaaaat?" he stumbled slowly; head swaying lethargically one way, then the next.

As the surprise dawned on a vampire who clearly hadn't felt surprise for a long time, a calm took hold of me, like the warm hand of a loved one. I could feel my fear swimming above and beside me, unable to find purchase.

With a smile, I glided backwards; watched as Piquine gradually turned; his grey robes swam around his hips like ghosts, exposing the hilts of his glowing swords.

The Shout would not hide me forever, and I could not hope to fire on and then hide from such a creature. Each second weighed on my mind; the ticking of time, reminding me that my hours, perhaps minutes, were being counted. Reaching forward, I slid his swords out of their sheaths.

They were weightless in my hands, and glowed brightest along their sharpened blades. As I lifted the weapons and crossed them, as I had seen Farkas do with his own favoured weapons countless times, I wondered that Movarth didn't seem to see them, or wonder at the loss.

In the space of a heartbeat I drew the swords against each other, and closed them around Movarth's neck.

 _Swish_.

They were sharp. His head was rent from his shoulders, sinking, rather than toppling to the earth. I watched its progress; watched as the realisation reached him; watched as the fire in his eyes extinguished and the mouth, open in shock, elongated canines made bright red by the glow of his swords, spoke no more.

As I was tugged _forward_ , the weight of the two heavy swords dragged at me. I let them clatter to the tiled floor, overwhelming the dull _thunk_ of Movarth's head as it landed.

"No!" Alva's pained cry came from below; fading even as she screamed.

I sucked in a breath of air as my fear crashed over me, chilling me to my core. I leaned forward, catching my knees urgently, and glanced up. The echoing ring of the fallen blades dissipated, and with only my own breaths for company, I watched Piquine's body dissolve; the remnants fluttered, caught by some breeze I didn't feel.

With a whispering hiss, the vampire was gone. The lack of Alva by my side to avenge his beheading was enough to tell me that the undead woman had lost her hold when her Master had lost his. Did it work that way with vampires? Did all those a Master had created die if the first lost their life? If so, were countless vampires who had plagued countless villages crumbling to dust at this very moment? It seemed like an impossibly fragile balance, though if true was doubtless the instinctive source of a progeny's devout loyalty to their Master.

 _It's questions such as these that got Movarth into this mess to begin with._ I shuddered, recalling the snatch of life presented to the reader in _Immortal Blood_. He had once wanted to help, too, and had ended up becoming the monster he had fought.

A chill rippled over my sweat-soaked skin and I stood taller, coughing feebly and covering my mouth with my arm as I glanced around the enormous, elaborate chamber, then stepped forward, kicking at the dust pile that had once been a two-eras old vampire. The wreckage was wrapped in folds of grey and straps of leather. Two eras, to dust in an instant.

Would my own quest for knowledge and understanding lead me along a similar path? The dragon within me mustered a powerful, intoxicating control, working above my body; a wingless anchor tying my feet to the ground. If I was to save the dragons from Alduin's breed of compulsion, would I have to become him to understand his means and motives, and overcome them?

 _Would you do it to save them,_ I queried? _Turn into a dragon to save the others; the world; all you love?_

Of course I wasn't going to _turn into a dragon_. It was a ridiculous thought, borne of over-tiredness and the uneasy, sudden stillness of the dreary cavern; an _impossible_ -

 _Impossible? Martin Septim did it._

Swift tears welled in my eyes and I turned toward the tunnel, cursing myself. "No," I said aloud, determined as I backtracked, retracing my steps. "I'm _not_ him-"

"You did it," a small voice interrupted my internal anguish.

Startling back, I held out my hands to steady myself against an outcropping as the ethereal form of Helgi shimmered before me.

I blinked at her; she stared at me expectantly. Did she experience time and awareness as I had during _Feim_? She was barely visible in the dim cavern; mere stardust clinging to the memory of a little girl who once played in the sunlight.

I gave her a short nod; my anguish over my fate diffused. While I had life, I had hope.

"Yes. It's over."

She turned her eyes down; seemed to consider. "Is that why I'm here?"

"Here?" I echoed.

"To say good bye?" she looked up. "But I'm so tired. Why am I here?"

 _Tired,_ my mind echoed desperately. "I don't know."

"I want to sleep," she closed her eyes, tight, as though to will herself to sleep.

 _To end_ , I corrected. _When she sleeps, it is over._

My throat was thick; I cleared it. "Did your mama read to you before bed?" I asked. "I could tell you a story? To make you sleepy, I mean," my throat closed up again; I glanced to the cavern ceiling, blinking away tears.

"She used to sing to me," Helgi opened her eyes, staring up with widened eyes. "You said you were a bard," she remembered.

 _Oh Gods._ "I am," I confirmed, laughing unsteadily.

"Would you sing for me?"

"If you like," I choked. "Which song would you hear?"

Finally, there was a hint of a smile; the first I had ever seen grace her tiny features. "Do you know _Edge of Night_?"

Nodding swiftly, I closed my eyes; took a deep breath, and another. I wasn't certain any amount of breathing would prepare me for _this_ song, so I decided to use what I felt and do my best. It was the least I could offer her as a parting gift from this world.

" _Home is behind, the world ahead_ ," I began. My chest ached; my notes wavered. " _And there are many paths to tread._ "

Before me, Helgi closed her eyes; nodded seriously. "I'm ready," she whispered.

" _Through shadow, to the edge of night_ ," I watched her, determined to remember this moment. " _Until the stars are all alight._ "

The little girl sighed with relief.

 _Why does a ghost need to breathe?_

" _Mist and shadow_ ," I couldn't hold my tears back any longer, and let them come.  
" _Cloud and shade.  
All shall fade._"

Perhaps breaths were a habit of the soul.

" _All shall fade._ "

And on the exhale, she faded.

Perhaps that's what the ghost of Helgi had been; the habit of the mists of Morthal, unwilling to forget who she was, clinging to the threads that once made her human. Whether true or not; my respect for the grey township deepened.

"We'll remember you," I promised, watching until the last speck of her remaining light flickered out.

–

I woke to the smell of dirt and blood, and grimaced as I arched up onto my hands; winced as my muscles protested and bruises on my knees flared in painful protest.

Glancing around, I remembered where I was. I had dragged myself out of the cave and made my way back to the Moorside, to the room I had rented earlier to house my lute in. I stilled; listened, but heard nothing beyond the door. Perhaps it was the dead of night.

I fumbled in the dark for my pack and a health potion, feeling drained, both physically and emotionally. The sleep had achieved little. There was only a stamina remaining, but it was better than nothing; I downed it and gratefully, the thump in my head diminished.

 _A flicker of brightness._ With my vision sharper, I peered at the window and frowned. I had assumed it was night, but -

I tugged aside the thick curtains. Daylight met me – broad daylight – blue skies – not the slightest hint of fog. I must have slept for nearly an entire day. My stomach promptly gurgled, as if to confirm my negligence.

Hunger could wait. I sat on the edge of the bed, turning the emptied green bottle in my hand as I took stock of my immediate needs. Bath, food, clean my armour, and then...to Whiterun. That's right. I was supposed to be going home, then taking Vilkas to High Hrothgar with me.

 _Good._ Pleased that I had something to do, something to aim for, I rose and made for the door. My booted feet scuffed and rustled something on the floor.

I peered down. Paper. No, folded paper with a little red wax seal – a _letter_?

It must have been slipped underneath while I slept – I ducked down and retrieved the small note, then continued on my way to ask Jonna about a bath and meal.

"Sure, anything you need – it's on me," Jonna welcomed with a broad smile, motioning toward a table. "I'll get your water started first; there's a nice pot of stew for lunch. Make yourself comfortable, Lady Dragonborn."

I wasn't that happy about taking charity from a village inn that needed patronage and made a mental note to leave a large, discreet tip somewhere she would find it. The Redguard bustled off, towing a tub into my room, and I gingerly took a seat. The inn was empty but for Lurbuk in his regular corner. The Orc hadn't noticed my emergence; seemed engrossed in some papers of his own, scribbling furiously and muttering to himself now and then.

He looked as tired as I felt, and I wondered if he was working on what I had asked of him when I had stumbled back into the inn the previous afternoon.

 _Write Helgi's song,_ I had urged him.

I turned my eyes down to the letter in my fist. The seal was Jarl Ravencrone's.

 _Oh_. I probably should have gone to her, though truthfully I didn't feel that bothered. I broke the seal and blinked in confusion as a single feather fell out of the folds and onto the table. Frowning at it, I let it alone and scanned the note.

 _Lady Dragonborn,_

 _Word spreads swiftly in a town such as mine, and news of your success reached me this morning. On behalf of Morthal, I thank you. As a reward for your service to my people, I offer you the title of Thane of Hjaalmarch, lands in my region, and a place at my table._

 _Until you are rested sufficiently to visit my Longhouse and make your appointment official, I would urge you to crush the feather into your next meal or drink. I do not doubt your caution or strength, but it is better to be safe. If there is even a trace of Sanguinare Vampiris in your system, the hawk's feather will neutralise it._

 _I look forward to receiving you, once you are refreshed,_

The Jarl's angled signature followed.

Widening my eyes at the feather, I picked it up; inspected it. _This_ little thing could neutralise the disease that led to vampirism? Interesting.

 _As interesting as being made Thane of Morthal?_

Sighing, I placed the letter aside, and the feather on top of it. I should have felt honoured, but the thought of _another_ accolade, particularly for _this_ , made my stomach churn.

It was that moment that Jonna reappeared, bearing a laden tray. "That came for you first thing this morning," Jonna nodded toward the letter as she set down a bowl of stew, a wooden cup of snowberry juice, a plate of bread with grilled tomatoes on top. "Jarl's housecarl delivered it himself, but I didn't think it right for anyone to wake you," she stepped back; bit her bottom lip. Her eyes flickered between me and the note. "Is it...good news? The Jarl's pleased, isn't she?"

Nodding idly, I sat taller and wiped my palms on my trousers. "Thank you for this."

"Any time," Jonna dismissed, preparing to leave. "And I mean that," her hand brushed my shoulder. "I'll keep that room ready for you. If you find yourself in Morthal again, don't hesitate-"

"Actually that's a great idea," I glanced up, pleased to come up with a way to pay her back. "I'll rent the room from you indefinitely. Lurbuk can use it, when I'm not here," I lifted my spoon, took a deep breath to inhale the scent of the stew. Chicken, mushrooms, carrots, sage, garlic. I put my stomach out of its misery, and took up a spoonful.

"...you sure, honey? You can _have_ the room – and Lurbuk-"

I made myself smile, though I didn't feel any brighter for it. "Consider it an investment, if you wish. This is delicious, by the way," I turned back to my meal.

Jonna hesitated, hugging the serving tray to her chest. "'cuse me for saying, but – why would you want to invest in _here_? In _us_?"

With a small shrug, I took another mouthful of stew, then motioned toward the letter by way of explanation. I spoke after I'd swallowed. "Isn't a Thane supposed to look out for her people?"

Jonna cursed under her breath. "Then I _insist_ , Thane...what is your last name again, honey?" she asked in a hiss.

I laughed, and it almost felt genuine. "Passero."

"That's the one," she motioned toward me. "If you won't accept the room, then maybe you'll accept food and drink on the house, whenever you're here."

"That's a very generous offer," I stood; extended my hand to her. "I believe we have an agreement."

Jonna smiled, slightly baffled as she shook my hand. "Thank you, Miss – _Thane_ Passero."

Taking my seat, I lifted the cup to my lips. "Lurbuk can have my meals on the days and nights I'm not here."

Jonna spluttered a laugh this time. "You set me up. What is it that you see in him?" she motioned toward her bard, lowering her voice. "He can't hit a note to save himself. Drives more customers away than he keeps."

I regarded the bard for a moment; he was unaware that he had attracted our attention. He put his papers down as I watched; picked up his lute and began to strum lightly; light enough that I couldn't hear the notes from my side of the tap room. Now and then, he would refer to his papers, glance to his fingers, and shake his head.

I hadn't planned on sponsoring the resident bard when I had left my room, but it had happened swift and naturally, as though it had always been my intention to do so. "I see his grief," I spoke quietly, not truly thinking about what I was saying. "There is music in him," I turned back to the publican hastily, sighing as I lifted my chin. There was music in _all_ of us. "I see his music. I want him to see it," I nodded reasonably, "and if he doesn't have to worry about where his next meal is coming from, or where he'll be sleeping every night, perhaps he will see it too."

Jonna gave me an amused, but sly look; re-crossed her arms. "If you say so, my Thane. You know more about these things than I do," she patted my shoulder. "I'll get your bath finished up. Enjoy your meal, honey."

"I will, thank you."

 _Guess you're becoming Thane of Hjaalmarch after all._

I stared into my stew; gave it a small smile as I crumbled the hawk feather into it. _Sure. Why not?_

* * *

 _A/n: Excuse my use of Edge of Night from Lord of the Rings. The past months have brought a personal loss and that song wouldn't accept a substitute.  
And as for time between posting? All I can say is - sorry. I fully expect that the delay between chapters has lost me any readership I might have had. Work is, as ever, a major cause; I'm finding it impossible to devote more than 5 minutes a day to writing at the moment, as it seem everyone is hammering me for work, all the time. When it isn't work or family annihilating my time, my mind is at fault; a crisis of confidence that I'm nowhere near through, resulting in a major edit of the first 15 chapters of this story, and a desire to significantly edit the rest (and despite wanting to bring new chapters out, I probably will continue to edit what's already here, delaying progress further).  
It is slow, but I promise that this story **will** be finished. I didn't expect Celeste to linger in Morthal, but she went and sat on her high horse (backwards), and 12,000+ words later... _


	55. Playing Catch-up

_Chapter 55: Playing Catch-up_

"The house of Windstad bequeathed this land to the Hold of Hjaalmarch three generations past, when their matriarch passed away," Jarl Ravencrone announced. "Our families did not get along."

Her eagle-eyes weighed me for response and I turned Misty to face her, wearing a practised smile. "It's lovely."

"Your bardic wiles won't work on me, Celeste," the Jarl waved her hand dismissively; her large, black mount shuffled and snorted, punctuating her distaste in the snow-sodden patch. "The ground is frozen for most of the year and marsh the rest. If you build, the foundations will need to be flexible. The view is worth painting, I am told," she waved her hand toward the outcropping in the distance; Solitude, high and proud on its bluff. "This estate is all of adequate consequence I have to offer," she flickered the hide-clad Nord beyond me a look. "That and a housecarl. You may sell both, if you wish," she drawled, "and I will not be offended."

"I live to serve the Dragonborn," Valdimar spoke up hastily in his low, heavily-accented tones.

My back was to him so I allowed myself a slow-blink to mask my wince as my stomach clenched. His blind reverence made me distinctly uncomfortable. "Thank you Valdimar," I voiced. "But I must insist that you live to serve yourself first," I turned to the enormous man and pointedly avoided staring at the overgrown moustache hiding the top of his mouth.

"As you wish, my Thane," he dipped his head.

"Okay," I covered brightly, swiftly, eyes roaming the plot; drifting back to the Sea of Ghosts and Solitude in the distance. I did not need this land, much less a house built, for I could never see myself living here. _Whiterun_ was my home. And _Lydia_ was my housecarl; no, my _family_.

 _Don't overlook both as you first did Morthal,_ I urged. _The village surprised you when you gave it a chance. Perhaps this land and Valdimar will, also._

Pushing my dubiety aside, I dismounted Misty; crouched in the crusty, brownish snow and tried to see its potential.

 _If nothing else,_ I mused, _construction will bring much-needed funds to the people of Hjaalmarch during the war._

"This patch of Skyrim can be as lovely as any other," I rose and spoke because I had let silence reign for too long. "Are there contractors situated nearby that you might recommend to undertake a challenge?"

"As a matter of fact," the Jarl motioned toward Valdimar with a lazy hand.

Focus switching between the pair, I lifted my brows to my new housecarl. "You know something of house building?"

"Yes, my Lady. My family are master builders – I can arrange for-"

"Excellent," the Jarl cut him off with another wave of her hand. "Make sure you get on to that. Right," she gripped her reigns. "Shall we?"

Had she not been a Jarl I might have scowled at her; she was being unnecessarily contemptuous, but not to anyone in particular. Nodding, I fell into formation behind the small contingent of silent Morthal guards the Jarl had brought with her.

Valdimar dutifully drew his horse up beside mine; silent and watchful.

I hadn't known the man for more than two hours, but I already understood he wouldn't speak until I gave him leave; rank seemed to be paramount in this marshy northern Hold.

"I have never undertaken a build," I began, "so I would like you to discuss Windstad estate with your family," I told him. "I will leave you to act on my behalf, and a line to my account to cover any preliminary expenses."

"I...on your behalf?" he asked, quietly shocked.

Jarl Ravencrone's back straightened and her ears seemed to twitch as a horse's might; she was clearly intrigued.

I focussed only on Valdimar. "I have business to attend to before I return to High Hrothgar to continue my training with the Greybeards," I explained. "Regretfully, I must leave for Whiterun at once. But I expect you and I will write frequently," I glanced at Jarl Ravencrone's back and couldn't help my wry smile. "Just because I'm sequestered at the Throat of the World doesn't mean I can't take part in _this_ project, if you are willing to keep me in the loop."

"Of – of course, my Lady," Valdimar dipped his head.

"And you may call me Celeste," I reminded him, widening my eyes in mock annoyance. "If you persist with this _my Lady_ business, I shall be forced to call you _Sir_ Valdimar."

"Of course...Lady Celeste."

He was _so_ different to Lydia; so formal and uncertain, and I wondered if I should remind him that I wasn't titled in _that_ way. I huffed a laugh at his tenacity, but said nothing. He'd figure it out as we got to know one another.

–

It was after I had crossed the border into Whiterun Hold that I realised I could have asked Valdimar to accompany me as the protection Farkas had insisted I find. I had left Hjaalmarch without noticing I was making the journey alone, and none of the Jarl's party, or my new housecarl, had seen fit to concern themselves with my departure.

I chose to take this as a compliment; a testament to my developing abilities. Of course, they had only known Celeste the Dragonborn; slayer of vampires; their new Thane and owner of Windstad estate, and not Celeste the student bard who couldn't pull a bow string back properly.

However the moment I realised what I'd done, hypocrisy plagued me. I had insisted my entirely capable fiancée have backup without consulting him, and then embarked upon a cross-country lone horseback ride of my own.

I had no excuse, bar a sense of security that could be shattered at any moment. Dragons, bandits, thieves – Stormcloaks! – I was young and barely armed – I could unwittingly stumble upon any of them, and disappear in a heartbeat, just as swiftly as little Helgi had.

 _Have you forgotten what you were trained to do before you were Dragonborn? Adapt. Blend in. Be friends with those who tread your path._

 _Yes, of course_ , I relaxed. Was I a bard or not?

Misty steadfastly continued following the road I'd set her to travel. Relieved to have come up with a solution, I let go of her reigns to reach back, unwrap, and gather my precious lute into my arms. Travelling bards were rarely considered sport; they carried little by way of cash and publicly bore a fickle allegiance so their songs would appeal to the widest audience.

 _Won't help you if you're recognised._

Once the thought was upon me I couldn't dismiss it, and I wished I had some skill with alteration magic, so I might alter my appearance with a wave of my hand. With a weary sigh, I directed Misty off the main road and _woahed_ her behind a cluster of boulders with tufts of white tundra cotton and plump, bushy thistles crowded at their base.

There was little I could do with what I carried and I was hesitant to remove my armour at all, but I could at least hide it and do something about my tumble of hair. My sister had convinced most of Skyrim that she _was_ me by assuming and satirising the recognisable chaos of my curls; a detail that I honestly found a little embarrassing.

Hadvar's tunic covered what I wore, and the cape I'd bought in Solitude covered the fact that the tunic was too big for me. I hid my bow, securing it between Misty's saddle and blanket, recalling with a smile that Vilkas had hidden his weapons in a similar place when we had travelled north. I wrapped my quiver in the furs that had covered my lute. It looked like any other instrument that I might carry between townships.

Perhaps I could plan a proper costume or two for future journeys? The idea grew on me as I slung my lute on and re-mounted my horse. I found myself looking forward to doing just that in Whiterun; something as simple and normal as picking out clothing for personas I would adopt. Once atop, I wound my hair into a bun at the back of my neck then secured the shorter curls that immediately fell out of the binding as a braid that wound over my head and came to rest in front of my ear. Finally, I raised my hood for good measure. A travelling bard in layers of warm travelling clothes.

A dragon wouldn't care _what_ I looked like, but on the plains of Whiterun Hold I doubted one would be able to sneak up on me; I would have time to take cover if not run to a watchtower, and figure out what to do.

 _Just another day on tour_ , I schooled, feeling oddly confident. _Sing and be merry; proud of who you are and what you have to offer Skyrim._

With Whiterun towering in the centre of the plain in the distance, perhaps I wouldn't even need a disguise today. But surely a day would come where I would encounter _somebody_ on the road and have to fall back on my training. I didn't _truly_ need to pretend that I was a bard; mere months ago, it was all I had ever known, even if I had never felt the call to wander.

 _You want to plan? I thought your strategies relied on improvisation._

"Shut _up_ , Vilkas," I whispered in a sing-song voice around a curl of amusement. I tightened my legs around Misty as I let go of the reigns to turn my lute around and cradle it in my arms. "Hello, beautiful," I murmured.

Positioning my hand along the neck at C, I plucked each string, testing the tune. A joyous, sonorous strain reverberated in reply with a tiny twinge of discord marring the higher strings. For a moment I hummed, tuned, switched chords and warmed up my vocal chords so I wouldn't strain them. When I felt ready, a song poured out of me, coming as naturally as breath itself;

" _Do you know where to find him?  
Have you looked to the hills?" _I sang, for the C chord had reminded me of _The Wilderking_.

" _Have you looked to the trees?  
He is not there._"

A sigh left me during the changeover; had Farkas found Hadvar? Were they safe? Surely all must be well; I did not feel the overwhelming anxiety I had felt when I had not known Hadvar's fate in the Pale. Instead, I missed him; wished that he was here with me, and we were riding for home...

" _He is the Court and the Throne,-"_

Before me, Misty snorted and shook her head.

"Whoa!" I tightened my knees and grabbed for the reigns, laughing as my fingers grazed lute strings and struck a frustrated disharmony. "You and me both. What was that about, Miss Horse? Don't like the song?"

The horse deigned not to respond.

"Philistine," I huffed. My sense of balance returned; I looped the reigns back around the pommel and repositioned my fingers on the strings. " _Never_ insult a bard," I instructed, narrowing my eyes at the back of her furry head as I considered my repertoire. _Brave Little Scrib Song_ would do, with some alterations.

" _Oh there's a horse that we all know,  
Who's as bold as any Dragon!  
You can see by the torchbug's glow_," I crooned,  
" _Misty-eeeeee_ ," I dragged the chords out as I held the note for longer than necessary; " _stop yer laggin'!_ "

Made merrier by my silliness – _when did you last sing for the fun of it?_ – I continued the tune, despite spotting a pair of Whiterun guards patrolling the road in the distance.

" _Play, play! Life's an adventure!  
Run, run! As fast as you dare!  
Sing, sing! Imagine the pleasure!  
Everything's fun for a horse without a care!_"

The absurdity of vocalising these words in Skyrim's current climate – at war and besieged by dragons – made a small, indignant spark in my mind tentatively question my sanity. The flicker reminded me much of my sister's attitude, which dulled my amusement, but did not entirely quench it.

With a small, determined smile, I continued playing and let my lute carry the merry tune alone as I allowed myself a moment to internalise over Giselle. This time, I felt the familiar, uneasy prickle of guilt, and a hot surge of anger directed at those who had taken her out of Solitude. Taken her from _me_. While I was terrified of who – _what_ – she had become, I had to admit that I was beginning to question whether or not she had been in control of her life choices.

Whatever had truly happened three years earlier; whether the Thalmor had scooped her up and made her go to Ulfric, or she had gone to him of her own volition, _someone_ had taken advantage of her; moulded a girl into the powerful woman she was today. She had always been more serious than I was in her endeavours, but at sixteen? Would she have consciously gone along with espionage schemes of warring governmental bodies?

I sighed audibly as my thoughts drew to conclusion; _of course she would have._ We had indirectly been exposed to the politics of our world for our entire lives through father's work as Thane to the High King. It would not have seemed so dangerous or strange to her.

And while Giselle looked like me, she was _not_ me. I felt I knew little of who she was today, but I knew Giselle of three years prior, and _she_ would never back down from a challenge. She threw her all into her endeavours without caring about whether she was getting in too deep too quickly, ever-confident she would be able to come up with some solution. She would have _loved_ the idea of working undercover for an organisation as powerful as the Thalmor.

 _But she's working for Ulfric now?_

Apparently so, despite her confidence in the Thalmor Embassy. I rolled my eyes at my helical theories and made sure I smiled casually to the Whiterun guards as they passed me by. They returned with a cursory nod and kept on their patrol. My fingers strummed idly, shifting between chords in a pattern of their own choosing as Misty carried me closer to Whiterun.

" _She told him she has the Septim's gift of foresight,"_ Delphine had told me.

It felt ridiculous to acknowledge the notion of prophecy, yet somehow Giselle had convinced Ulfric she was legitimate in this claim.

" _Dreams that linked Septim and Stormcloak."_

Nords were superstitious; despite being a grown man of absolutes, he would have been easy to convince since he wanted to believe she existed. Legend told that Septims _did_ see more than others – _this_ was no lost secret – and Stormcloak had been interested in finding a Septim heir since Delphine had put the idea into his head at High Hrothgar.

 _What if Giselle **does** see the future? What if she **does** have the Septim's Gift?_

The frankness made me flush, mostly for the lack of my own prophetic dreams. Unable to answer, I reminded myself that I no longer cared if the Passero line had descended from the last Septim. I was Dragonborn and my lineage didn't change what was before me.

And if Giselle had seen some obscure truth – because it was not unheard of amongst those who practised magic, Septim or not – where had her dreams led her? To our estrangement from one another. Into the arms of an enemy of the Empire, and under the command of our tenuously-won allies; flip-flopping allegiances and spying on spies. To war; sons and daughters of Skyrim pit against each other. To the death of our parents.

She could hardly call such a thing a _gift_.

 _Enough._ I closed my eyes briefly; focussed on my music, then turned my eyes down and picked out a pattern, idly adjusting and repeating it, filling my mind with sound to drown out the questions. There were songs I had promised to write since I had left Solitude; of the battle of Korvanjund, of Riverwood, of potatoes and dishwashing. I could write one of them now.

The tune I picked out belonged to none of those; I doubted I could even call it mine. It escaped across the plains of Whiterun; a melancholy timbre that swirled away from me on a gust of dry, icy wind, drawing strength from the sky.

" _Hmm...hmm-hmm_ ," I echoed the G-D-E quietly, considering the notes, the pattern, the clouds.

A faint keening broke my concentration, so distant that it must have come from far beyond the mountains. It felt like a response to the melody, and I searched for where it might have originated, squinting against the glare of the sun. My gaze settled on High Hrothgar and a chill ran down my spine; a sharp, frozen tongue.

"O _kay_ ," with widened eyes I puffed out a breath, pushing my lute around so it splayed across my back like a shield. "That's enough music for today."

 _No_ , a part of me protested. _Write that song! That song is Truth._

"Not today," I murmured to myself with a shudder.

I distracted myself again with thoughts of who I would see in Whiterun, and what I could tell them of all that had passed since Farkas and I had left.

The agitated urgency to compose receded the closer we drew to Whiterun, though my guilt in suppressing it remained.

–

Breezehome was the logical first port of call, for I suspected that if I visited Jorrvaskr or Dragonsreach I would be reminded of my duties too soon, and might never visit Hadvar's family. My key was buried somewhere in my pack, so I knocked instead. The door was answered by a red-cheeked Sigrid.

"Celeste!" her eyes lit up with happiness and she waved me inside. "Why are you knocking on your own door! Come in, come in. I'm steaming blueberry custards, so you'll have to excuse the," she waved at her face idly, "well, this."

I breathed in the sweet aroma as I stepped inside and let my pack fall to the floor. "It smells...wonderful!" Casting the woman a grin, I threw my arms around her neck. "It's so good to see you!"

"Oh!" she laughed in surprise as she hugged me back. "I see you have your lute -" she began fondly. "Wait," she withdrew, holding my shoulders. "You saw Hadvar?" she asked swiftly. "How is he?"

I stepped back, nodding encouragingly as my cheeks warmed. "He was well when we parted a few days ago." With a small, embarrassed smile, I had to add; "I...sent Farkas after him. To keep him company - keep him safe. Not that Hadvar isn't perfectly capable of looking after himself-"

"Thank the Gods," Sigrid collapsed into a chair by the hearth; peered momentarily into a steaming pot. "And your lute," she returned. "Does it...play well?" she asked, too idly. There was no mistaking the caution to her tone.

"Beautifully – like a dream," I unstrapped my lute, offering it to her. "Do you want to...hold her?"

Sigrid put down her tongs and turned on her seat, wiping her hands on the front of her dress. With a small tuck to her brow, barely discernible, she accepted the lute with the barest hesitance. "It's...very pretty, isn't it?" she spoke to the instrument, brushing her fingers along one of the silvery lines wistfully. " _She_ , I mean," she corrected with a huff of amusement. " _She's_ very pretty. Hadvar was..." she paused; reconsidered. "He didn't need to tell us then, that he was in love with you," she murmured thoughtfully; lifted her eyes to mine. With a small smile, she held my instrument out. "He told us that he gave you his word about this lute – but," she rolled her eyes, clearly trying to draw herself back, "that it had to be kept a secret from you, when you returned. He meant to present it to you. Dorthe was _beside_ herself," she laughed.

"I remember that, actually," I cradled my lute, laughing fondly. Dorthe had been bursting to tell me something all those months ago, but Alvor and Sigrid had shushed her. I wanted to know more about that day; that time when Hadvar had first returned with my battered lute from Helgen, but didn't want to risk pulling Sigrid into sadder memories.

Sigrid lowered her eyes and winced. "This means Lucia will get your training lute?"

"Only after I teach her to tune it," I promised. "Where are the girls?" I glanced around the small abode; it was too quiet.

"Dorthe's with Adrianne, and Lucia's at the Temple of Kynareth."

My eyes widened; my chest constricted in sudden panic. "What happened to her?"

"Oh!" her eyes lost their gloom as they widened as well. "No, no-no, sorry. Nothing like that!" she placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I forgot you don't know. She's learning to become a healer. After the battle, Jarl Balgruuf put out an order that any who wished to learn be accepted and taught in the arts of restoration and medicine. She loves it," she added quickly, as though she feared I would judge her, then added a laugh. "The Jarl's own daughter was one of the first to sign up, if you can believe it?"

My breath came back in a great gush; the scheme reeked of Dagny's influence, but it seemed to be for the best. "That's – wonderful news," I didn't bother hiding my smile. Yes, Lucia would love that, and she'd be good at it. Dagny adored her; she'd treated Lucia as though she was her own little sister when we'd resided in Dragonsreach. She'd keep an eye on her. "And Lydia? She's at Dragonsreach?"

"Hmm," Sigrig quirked an eyebrow in amusement, retrieving her tongs. "I think not."

"Um, okay?" I turned to the fire with a laugh; warmed my hands. "Is she at the Temple as well, learning to become a healer?"

"Guess again," Sigrid murmured, standing to check on the custards. She waved her hand over the pot to distribute the steam. "You haven't visited your shield-siblings yet, have you?" she asked with nonchalance.

The change in topic didn't make sense, unless; "Lydia's at Jorrvaskr?"

"Mm-hmm," she lifted her eyebrows knowingly.

With a splutter of disbelief, I stood, grinning; strapped my lute around me. "She's a _Companion_?" I whispered, astonished.

Sigrid's eyes shone with amusement. "One would think so, yes," she laughed a little. "Oh, I'm sorry Celeste – it's not my place. I'll speak no more of Lydia," she waved me toward the stairs. "Your room is as you left it, dear – if you want to freshen up before you head to the Cloud district."

"Thank you," I blinked, puzzled over Sigrid's merriment, but did as she suggested and made for the upper level, musing over the course of events that might have led Lydia to accept a position with the Companions. I would know the finer details soon enough.

My room was evidently _not_ as I had left it. My scattered thoughts collected and centred on what was before me. "Sigrid?" I called over my shoulder.

I caught a hint of a tittering laugh from down stairs. "Do you like it?" she called innocently. "The girls helped."

"It's lovely, but it is effort rather wasted," I called from the bannister, "considering I need to depart almost at once for High Hrothgar, and...Hadvar is at war," I added.

"And your room will be here waiting for both of you, whenever you wish to visit," she called up. "It was Lydia's idea," she admitted. "She doesn't expect you to actually _live_ here, once you are wed, but she wants you to always feel at home. Rearrange anything you like, okay? I'm sure Hadvar won't mind."

"Okay," I murmured, turning back to my... _our_ Breezehome room with a flush.

"And ignore the doll's crib. That was _all_ Dorthe," she added in amused fondness.

"Okay," I repeated with a small, incredulous laugh. "Duly ignored."

It was impossible to ignore, but I could see the funny side to it. Since last I had seen my little room, it had been overhauled. The single bed had been replaced with a double and clothed in teal-green sheets and a gorgeous deep red coverlet, embroidered at its base with a criss-crossing golden pattern. Dorthe had placed the dolls crib at the foot of the bed, nestled between two end tables with single drawers. Above the bed, the shield from Hadvar's bedroom in Riverwood was mounted – _I must ask him about that shield, some day_. The drawers had been replaced by a wardrobe; possibly the one from Hadvar's bedroom. My humble bookshelf had trebled in size and contained titles which I remembered seeing on my fiancee's shelf. Two armour dummies flanked the books; one contained my Wolf armour, and the other was bare and sized to fit much larger armour than mine. I caught sight of my practise lute, tucked behind my Wolf armour; they must have retrieved it from my room in Dragonsreach, where I had left it.

Each piece of furniture had been decorated with garlands of paper flowers coloured sunny yellow, a multitude of greens and bold reds.

With a conspiratorial smile, I offloaded my lute to the bed and retrieved both the doll's crib and practise lute, then bolted down stairs to the girl's shared bedroom. It too was decorated with paper; drawings and notes in tentative, deliberate scrawl, paper birds and more of the flowers. I placed the doll's cot between their beds, the lute in it, and searched for a piece of blank paper and something to write with.

Sigrid leant against the door frame as I finished my presentation. "Are those tuning instructions?" she asked hopefully.

"Nope!" I stepped back, grinning as I pointed to the paper wound between the strings.

 _It's a girl!_ the note proclaimed.

"Dorthe might think this is your way of telling them you're pregnant-" Sigrid laughed, then cut short. "Oh. You're not, are you?"

"No," I laughed.

"Not that it would be a _bad_ thing –"

"I'm not pregnant," my laughter doubled and I joined Sigrid by the door; nodded to the crib. "You'll let them know what it means, won't you?"

Sigrid's eyes shone with mirth. "And burst their bubble?"

Cringing, I made a hasty retreat to my – _our_ – bedroom. "Tell them whatever you wish!" I called in my wake. "You're the one who has to live with them!"

–

After I had washed, dressed myself in something suitable for town, and tucked Farkas' letter to his brother into my cross-shoulder satchel, I dropped by Warmaiden's to say hello to Dorthe and confirm my suspicion that Adrianne had taken her on as an apprentice. Both girl and smith were in the yard, but must have been inside the shop when I had passed earlier, or I might have found out she was being instructed in her late father's trade sooner.

Adrianne saw me coming before Dorthe did. The woman told her to _look after this customer_ before Hadvar's cousin nervously turned toward me.

Then the girl let out a small squeak and barrelled into me for a hug.

Something akin to uncertainty swept through me when I passed her the armour her father had made and paid her to clean and check it for repairs, but the girl held it with reverence, not remorse. Overwhelming pride swelled within me; pride in her strength.

"Do you want to know how to clean it?" Dorthe asked, nodding toward the work bench. "I can show you. It's really easy," her gaze flickered toward her teacher and she faltered. "Um, I mean. Not _that_ easy. Should really be left to a professional, most of the time."

"Better," Adrianne laughed.

I left her to it and made for Jorrvaskr, taking the residential path to check in on Lucia at the temple. After some enquiries, I spied her by an internal fountain filling a pitcher with water.

She had grown taller and somehow seemed older than her six years dressed in soft brown robes with her hair plaited neatly behind her ears. Her eyes lit up and she smiled when she saw me, but didn't make a sound as she placed the pitcher carefully on the edge of the fountain and hurried over to me.

"Celeste, you're back!" she whispered, throwing her arms around my waist. "Did Sigrid tell you I was here? Do you like your bedroom?" she peered up at me and added hastily; "The cot was Dorthe's idea, I swear."

Such a change from the cold, frightened urchin I had shared pie with around the Gildergreen. I hugged her back, grateful to know her. My throat tightened and I felt alarmingly of breath, and laughed to cover it. "Um, yes. Yes, I loved the flowers, they are _gorgeous_ ," I ducked down to her. "You're taller," I accused.

The little girl wrinkled her nose then crossed her brows; peered over my shoulder. "Ooh, is that it? Your proper lute?"

Nodding, I swung it around, and for a few minutes she cooed over the form and tested the strings gently.

"Luci?" a voice called from an archway. "Where are you?"

Glancing up, I recognised the Jarl's daughter in the doorway, dressed in the same brown Lucia wore. Her eyes were softer than I remembered, but not without that tiny spark of indignation. "My apologies," she addressed formally, then spoilt it by adding a weary sigh. "I didn't know you were back. Father will be _so_ pleased."

"Oh!" Lucia's eyes widened and she darted back to the fountain, seemingly oblivious to Dagny's hackles. "I'm on my way. Sorry," she hushed as she hurried past me. "I was supposed to take this back. Restoration is thirsty work," she pipped.

After a hurried good bye and a promise that I would teach her to tune her lute before I left (a promise I was determined to keep), I left the girl to her training and continued past the grand houses and gardens toward the Gildergreen. The bleached-white branches swayed and clacked and the tended flowers at its base fluttered as a wintery gust was funnelled down the street and swept around the courtyard.

 _Father will be_ _ **so**_ _pleased._ Glancing toward the high stairs to my left, I decided that once I said hello to Lydia and prepared Vilkas for the journey to Hrothgar, I would pay my respects to the Jarl. After that, I might be able to assemble my bard outfits for future journeys. Perhaps I could stay the night in Whiterun – I could spend the night in Breezehome – and Vilkas and I could leave in the morning.

There was something to be said for this _planning_ thing; I felt happy and secure; satisfied, despite knowing that I would be leaving the warmth of my Whiterun family in, realistically, a matter of hours.

The clang and thump of practise swords striking one another from the training yard came to me, so as with my previous return to Jorrvaskr, I wandered around the upturned ship, smiling when I saw Vilkas and Lydia sparring together. If she was training here, it could only mean that she _was_ a Companion. My shield-sister. The confirmation made me grin from ear to ear.

I leaned against the rock wall and crossed my arms, observing them for a moment. Lydia was attacking with a wooden sword in each hand, and Vilkas met her with one, blow for blow, shuffling back with slow, almost relaxed movements.

He must have sensed my approach but he didn't show it. Perhaps it was his determination to be a good teacher, to keep Lydia focussed, that stopped him from hailing me. Not that my housecarl had ever been found wanting when it came to sword fighting, so I could only wonder at what Vilkas felt she needed to learn.

"Much better!" he schooled with a chuckle.

Lydia laughed back, lowering her swords. " _Much better_?" she flicked her hair out of her eyes with a shake to her head. "This isn't a _lesson_ , Vilkas."

"All right, maybe I meant...nice moves," he relaxed his stance and threw his practise sword to the ground.

"Thank you," Lydia huffed, smiling up at him. "Much better," she winked.

 _Eh?_ I wrinkled my nose. What was...was Lydia _flirting_?

"I shouldn't let you show off like this," Vilkas grinned fondly. "It'll go to your head," he ruffled her hair affectionately.

 _What?_

Lydia pushed him away. "It's not showing off when you're in a training yard," she quirked, eyes dancing as she brushed her mussed-up hair out of her face and behind her ears; a small, victorious smile played on her lips. "Maybe next time I'll _let_ you win."

Okay, _something_ was _happening_ here! So _this_ explained Sigrid's smugness. With a rush of awkwardness, I considered a hasty retreat but my reaction burst out of me first – a loud, uncontrollable laugh.

Both of them startled.

"Celeste!" Lydia welcomed with a smile, huffing and clearing her throat; hands on hips as she took a few deep breaths. I gave her a wide-eyed look; she was trying to pass _embarrassment_ off as exertion.

Vilkas ground out a frustrated sound to the sky. "It's rude to sneak up on people, sister."

"Also, welcome home," Lydia gave Vilkas a pointed look.

"Yes, of course, that as well," Vilkas waved his hand toward her and – _yes_! I wasn't imagining it; his silvery eyes betrayed a _hint_ of admiration.

"Sneak up on _you_?" I cut in, unable to mask my glee. "Since when has _anybody_ been able to sneak up on you, brother?"

"I meant," Vilkas seemed a little flustered. "I was distracted," he conceded in a murmur. "Some of us _focus_ when we practise the art of swordplay."

"Ah, art of _swordplay_ ," I repeated, grinning. "Right. So _that's_ what you were doing."

"Of course it was-" Lydia crinkled her nose.

"Anyway I've missed you two," I waggled my fingers at them playfully. "Will it be weird if I hug you at the same time?"

Vilkas glared at me. "Why are you being strange?"

"What an odd request," Lydia cast Vilkas a hasty glance, laughing uneasily.

"I'm going to do it anyway," I hurried forward and threw an arm around each of them briefly, squeezing them as I retreated. "I'm _so_ glad I called in on Whiterun."

Vilkas smirked and glanced beyond me. "Where is my brother?"

My high spirits settled. "Oh. Um."

Thoughts crashed to conclusion; I was in Whiterun to pick up Vilkas and take him to High Hrothgar. Take him away from this...new happiness he seemed to be on the brink of finding.

Because, that's what I was seeing, wasn't it? Vilkas was fond of Lydia. Lydia was clearly fond of him. They seemed so _happy_ together.

Farkas had wanted me to take Vilkas to the Greybeards so I could keep his wolf contented, but it didn't seem any part of him truly _needed_ placating right now.

"He can't be dead; you're not sad enough," Vilkas considered in a dry tone. "Which means he's at the Mare. I'll go get him," he turned to Lydia. "Can you mind the accounts?"

Lydia nodded hastily, waving him away.

"Um," I repeated, a little louder. "No, Farkas isn't at the Bannered Mare."

Vilkas frowned and faced me properly. "He's not in Whiterun, is he?" he asked.

I shook my head; bit my bottom lip as I dug into my satchel for Farkas' letter. "I asked him to go after Hadvar-"

" _What_ -?!"

"-and travelled here on my own," I admitted hurriedly. "But before you say any more!" I held my hands up, folded letter in one, and passed it to its owner, stopping Vilkas mid-admonishment.

"What is _this_?" Vilkas grumbled, opening it swiftly. "Farkas...?" he drifted off, squinting at the first page.

My gaze flickered to Lydia; she was no better, part terror, part shock. "He made me promise to hire someone in Morthal to bring me home," I explained.

"Which you promptly ignored," Lydia's finished; her eyes widened. "What if you'd been attacked on the road?" she asked, now all worry. "Nobody would have known!"

"I _actually_ did all right on my own," I pointed out. "In Morthal, I thwarted some vampires and became Thane of Hjaalmarch."

Vilkas lowered the letter, deadpan. "You did _what_?" he asked in a dry growl.

"Thane of Hjaalmarch," I repeated stoically.

Lydia flickered Vilkas a swift, sideways glance that must have told him she would handle this. "Congratulations, little one. But," she shot me a more imploring look. " _Vampires_? On your _own_?"

"A whole coven," I admitted. "They killed a little girl," I sobered; stood taller, determined to get through this; to show them I was capable and had acted out of justice, not ego. "But only after they killed her mother and thralled her father. I couldn't leave her to flit in and out of existence around the burnt ruins of her home. _Nobody else_ would help her and the vampires wanted the _whole village_."

Lydia's expression softened; she closed her eyes regretfully. "Ever your father's daughter," she whispered. "I wish I had been there, to...help ease that burden."

"It's okay," I told her quietly. "It's done. She's...gone."

Vilkas let out a long breath and ran an agitated hand through his inky hair. "All right, sister. You're here now, and you're alive. But," he squared me with a hard look, "you should _never_ have blustered in there alone. We aren't called _Companions_ because it's a catchy name."

"I didn't _bluster,_ " I defended. "I just...did what you taught me. Observed," I swallowed, nodding at the memory of the cold, sticky cavern and the feel of Movarth's fingers around my throat. "I watched them, and chose my moments."

Lydia darted forward and threw her arms around me. Over her shoulder, Vilkas looked mildly taken aback, then turned his eyes to his letter swiftly, clearly sensing something from Lydia that begged a moment of privacy.

"You...absolutely terrify me in so many ways – do you know that?" she hissed. "Is...is that a new lute?"

"Yes and no, but don't change the subject," I squeezed her. "Are you and Vilkas _together_?"

"What?" she evaded with a sniff. "We were _training_ together, if that's what you mean. Wait – you're not in your armour – did you like your bedroom?"

"Love it," I dismissed, withdrawing and fixing her with an arched eyebrow. "The truth, Lydia – otherwise I'll be forced to make up my own version of what's happening," I whispered.

She stilled, and then; "What's your Morthal housecarl like?" she asked with a wry smile.

With a contented laugh, I let her be. " _Very_ formal, but I think he'll be fine once he gets to know me. I left him in charge of a house build on the plot of land Jarl Ravencrone gave me."

"Land – _house_?" Lydia paled. "You plan to live in _Morthal_? Where there are – no walls, and – _vampires_?"

"I told you, I took care of the vampires – but," I shook my head. "I absolutely do not plan on living there," I assured. "I just didn't..." I drifted off, uncertain of what I had actually intended on doing with a house in Morthal, once it was built.

"She didn't want to disappoint them," Vilkas supplied, stuffing the letter into his armour, for later I supposed.

I fixed him with a flat look, and he raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Tell me I'm wrong?"

"Hmm," I glanced away, smirking at his confidence. My allegiance to the strange, swampy place had come on so swiftly that I honestly wasn't sure.

"It seems we have our motive," Lydia sighed, exasperated. "Well played, Vilkas."

The endearing glance and small laugh Vilkas replied to her with settled me; I was _not_ going to be responsible for parting them – this – whatever _this_ was. I had to look away so I wouldn't laugh again, and my eyes locked onto the high mountains beyond Whiterun. It was just what I needed to sober my thoughts; with a sigh, I reminded myself why I was really here.

"Except that this isn't a game," evidently, Vilkas _had_ picked up on my change, now that he was paying attention. "What's happened?"

With a bleaker huff, I met his eye and arrived at my decision. "Thinking about Hrothgar," I owned with a weak smile, "and how much of everyone's lives I will miss while I'm away."

Vilkas frowned; his brows furrowed, but it was Lydia who spoke first.

"You're not making _that_ journey alone," she assured gently. "When do we leave?"

"Don't make me sneak away in the middle of the night again." I shook my head. "You have a daughter and -" I motioned toward Vilkas. "A...a _Harbinger_ , now;" my attempt to lighten the mood.

"Heading out by yourself from Riverwood didn't work last time," Lydia evaded the quip. "Morthal to Whiterun is all main roads and open plains, but the journey to the Throat of the World is-"

"-travelled by pacifist pilgrims, mostly," I finished for her, pushing away the memory of the troll and ice wraiths with a confident smile. "I don't need a bodyguard."

"We're not _bodyguards_ ," Vilkas reminded me. " _Companions_ , Celeste. Brothers and sisters-"

"Yes," I pointed a finger at him in victory. "I'll take one of the other Companions, if that will make you happy. Who's not out on a job?"

Vilkas narrowed his eyes. "Torvar."

"Who _else_ isn't on a job?"

" _Celeste_ ," Vilkas ground out, glancing to the sky briefly. "Stop wasting time. Farkas would never have left you unless he intended for _me_ to take his place. When do we leave?" he repeated Lydia's question.

" _You're_ not going," Lydia hit his arm. "This is my _job_ – Celeste is _my_ Thane-"

"Only Farkas and I can keep harm from striking before its in front of her." Vilkas cut in delicately. "I need you here, to manage the accounts-"

"I'm not your _secretary_ , Vilkas!"

They argued over who would take me while I stood before them – _they are perfect for one another,_ I thought with a secret smile, wondering how I had not seen it before.

I rolled my eyes and sidestepped toward the accounts book, laid open on the table where it usually was by day. "Let's see here," I scanned the most recent page. As much as I wanted to tease them, it was really none of my business, so I stashed my taunts away for another time – a _future_ time, where they had resolved the matter for themselves.

Everyone _was_ out with the exception of Torvar, and I couldn't exactly take him with me; I doubted Torvar would be able to cut a loaf of bread straight, much less a wriggling ice-wraith.

I glanced up to Lydia and Vilkas. If they wouldn't let me go alone, then I needed one of them. They were still discussing who would accompany me to the Greybeards. Watching them, at war with their honour, I realised that whoever stayed behind would ultimately harbour a resentment, either at the other or both of us, snuffing the spark between them before it had a chance to catch alight and encircle them.

Which would leave Vilkas vulnerable, or Lydia furious with me for not letting her do her job. I didn't fancy either scenario. There was only one course that would work, to satisfy _them_.

"Why don't you both come to High Hrothgar?" I cut in.

The quarrelling pair turned toward me; Vilkas shook his head. "Who will manage the Companions-?"

I rolled my eyes; _Lydia's greatest rival is this book_. "Aela's on a job in Rorikstead," I motioned toward the relevant line. "She'll be back before tomorrow morning, surely."

"Aye," Vilkas' eyes flickered briefly toward the book.

I snapped it closed. "It's settled, then. Prepare yourselves for lots of snow; _we_ leave at dawn," I leapt down the stairs and joined them, smiling secretively at Lydia. "Can I borrow you this afternoon?" I asked, flickering a hasty glance Vilkas' way. "If you can spare her, Harbinger."

"I'm _not_ your Harbinger," Vilkas met me with a flat look then waved a hand dismissively. "Do whatever you wish."

"Thank you, Harbinger," I dipped my head toward him to mask my grin.

He turned away and stalked to the table, muttering _cheeky_ and other small grumbles.

My grin persisted; I grabbed Lydia's arm and towed her out of the yard.

"Wha-? Okay, bye Vilkas!" she called back over her shoulder. "Celeste!" she hissed, jogging to keep up with me. "All right, I'm with you!"

I waited until we had rounded the upturned ship before I let her go. "Are you?" I quirked a half-smile. "Or did we leave your heart in that training yard?"

"By the _Gods_ ," Lydia rolled her eyes; glanced away. "You have been spending too much time with Dorthe."

"Sigrid, actually," I skipped down the stairs leading to the courtyard then spun around to face her. "She was so _happy_ about your new-found allegiance, but was reluctant to tell me _anything_ of consequence. As though there was something worth _hiding_ ," I mused idly.

Lydia ground out a frustrated, but still amused sound.

"So – it's true?" I baited; bounced around her, trying to meet her eye.

"What _exactly_ did Sigrid tell you?" she eyed me warily, crossing her arms.

I closed my mouth and tapped my nose. "It's what she _didn't_ tell me that spoke volumes."

"That doesn't make _any_ sense."

"If you say so," I replied in a sing-song voice.

"I stand by my confusion," she reiterated, though she didn't seem to be able to maintain her sternness and smiled at the bricks as we commenced our ascent to Dragonsreach. "And...I am pleased that you agreed to take me with you, this time," she owned.

"And _I_ feel better knowing that you won't be as bored as Farkas was at Hrothgar," I pipped.

 _Not with Vilkas to keep you company,_ I internally cheered.

–

Lydia and I spent about an hour with the Jarl. He was pleased to see me, but not in the way his daughter implied. He called for drinks to be brought and a toast to be drunk in celebration of my becoming Thane of both Haafingar and Hjaalmarch (word travelled fast, in _that_ regard).

"Though it is my hope you will not make yourself a stranger to _my_ halls as the other Jarls realise your worth and collect you in theirs," Balgruuf completed his toast.

"This is my home," I confirmed with an easy smile, for while he had said it in a jovial manner, it seemed that he required reassurance, as Lydia had. "Wherever my titles take me, I will always return to Whiterun."

"And you will always be welcome," his eyes shone with what I could only place as _fatherly_ pride. Perhaps Dagny was jealous that he might _adopt_ me?

He cleared his throat and masked his moment of mistiness with a short, officious nod. "I should like to see this Horn you retrieved, before you and it disappear to the Throat of the World."

"As would I," Farengar just about cut the Jarl off with his brand of eagerness.

So much had passed since the horn had entered my possession that I was surprised to think of its retrieval as the reason for setting out, much less a victory. Lydia returned home to collect it while I remained with the Jarl and his court mage.

With Lydia gone, Farengar seemed to find his voice. "Did you learn any more of the dragon tongue during your travels?"

"I did," I weighed him; wondered if he realised how much of Delphine's story I now knew, particularly with regards to their arrangement. Had news of Kynesgrove reached Dragonsreach? Had any, excepting Farkas, Delphine and I, witnessed Alduin's deeds; Sahloknir's awakening and subsequent destruction? "A single word," I pressed on, for we could not speak of other matters in front of the Jarl. " _Feim_ ".

"Feim," he tested thoughtfully. " _Feim_..." again in a considering whisper.

"What does it mean?" the Jarl sat back comfortably. "Does it allow you to breath shards of ice, or summon a storm?"

"No my Jarl, nothing like that," I turned my eyes down; traced the rim of my silvery goblet. "It...allows the speaker to become ethereal. Objects or people pass through you," I sighed, dissatisfied by my explanation. "It is difficult to explain the effect," I admitted. "I do not believe there is an adequate translation in our tongue. _Fade_ is the closest I can come."

" _Fade_?" Farengar echoed, confused. With a small, disbelieving sound that might have passed for amusement, he added; "I cannot imagine how such a Shout might be useful to anyone but a common thief."

"The dragons must have words for things other than destruction, Farengar," the Jarl considered.

I stared at Farengar while I allowed myself a moment to reflect; considered telling him how useful the Shout had been to me already, then decided against it. Neither Farengar nor the Jarl needed to know how I had taken on Movarth Piquine.

"They do," I decided, replying directly to the Jarl. "They have...so _many_ words, each carrying such purpose and power," I told him; my brow furrowing. "It is both a gift and a curse to understand it," I disclosed.

Farengar _hmphed_ at this, perhaps believing me to be ungrateful. I was sure that he wanted nothing more than to be able to translate the dragon tongue in _his_ head.

"As is the nature of greatness," the Jarl concluded pensively. "The Gods would not have chosen you, Celeste, had they not believed you capable of keeping your balance on that double-edged sword."

I hesitated, waiting for Farengar to pass comment, but this time he remained steadfastly silent.

Lydia returned shortly after, and the rest of my audience was spent allowing Farengar to sketch then ruminate the angles and carvings of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller.

The Jarl watched on with a small, indulgent smile on his face, and I realised why he bent to the whims of these spirited, difficult people he surrounded himself with; his mage, his fiery housecarl Irileth, his unyielding, choleric brother, his begrudging daughter, and myself; his ever-absent Thane. He seemed to delight in allowing people the chance to be passionate about what they loved and believed in.

Soon enough, Irileth arrived to collect the Jarl for a meeting with Legate Cipius, and our audience drew to a close.

I curtsied low to the Jarl as I left Lydia to pry the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from Farengar's reluctant grasp.

"I am sorry to be leaving in the morning," I admitted truthfully.

"You can never truly leave Whiterun behind once it is a part of you," the Jarl rose, giving me a knowing tilt and a small smile; conveying the same favour he had displayed toward his court mage. "Gods be with you, Lady Dragonborn."

* * *

 _A/n: thank you all so much for your continuing support and understanding re delays._


	56. What is Lost in Translation

_Chapter 56: What is Lost in Translation_

A biting gale threw eddies of snow against our backs; layers of leather and fur thrashed around us like frantic flags, punishing our slow progress. We had stabled the horses in Ivarstead as the trek was too perilous for a horses hoof, and had progressed in silence for at least an hour as conditions had grown too turbulent to maintain conversation.

High above us the sky was bright and blue with delicate, insubstantial wisps of white its only decoration. My eyes stung every time the zephyrs twirled around me, for I could not risk lowering my gaze. Not since we had passed the ninth marker.

 _With good reason._ I held my hand up and stopped the others in their tracks, for I had insisted on taking the lead. Once I sensed their attention, I wordlessly motioned toward the ridge.

"Oh, the Gods are _not_ smiling on us today-" Vilkas growled under his breath.

"It's seen us," Lydia cut him off. "Celeste, get out of here. Vilkas will find you once we're done."

"Not a chance," I drew an arrow, aimed, and flickered Vilkas a nervous glance. His brother had nearly been killed on this site. "If the Gods have a hand in this, it's a test," I murmured. "One that I will pass this time."

"If they want to test your ability to _run_ ," Lydia drawled, unmoved. "Get her out of here," she ordered Vilkas swiftly. "Throw her over your shoulder if she won't go quietly."

Lydia drew her dual swords with an echoing rasp of steel. The sound was immediately swallowed by the winds, as though the Throat of the World had taken a great gulping breath of air in anticipation.

"Not going to happen," I grit out, sidling away from my shield-brother as he took a step toward me. "We take it together."

"Your arrows won't fly true in this weather," Lydia insisted. "You have no idea what you're up against-"

"Trust me," I tracked its movements and – yes, _finally_ it was within range. I loosed my arrow and reached for another at once. "I _really_ do."

The winds were swirling unpredictably; they captured my arrow before it reached its mark and sent it flying to the left.

The frost troll, unaware and undeterred, lumbered ever-closer.

Cursing, I threw my bow over my shoulder and took a deep, measured breath to reign in my frustration. I could channel it elsewhere. _Fus Ro it is_. "Get behind me," I commanded. Lydia made a sound of protest and I shot her a hard glance. "A Shout will tumble it, but I'll still need you to advance once it's down. You'll have seconds – make them count."

"Do what she says," Vilkas muttered; his fingers flexed around his sword handle before he drew.

I turned back to the approaching frost troll; drew my barely-used short-sword, just in case, and took another steeling breath to focus. The world quietened; perhaps Kyne, in sensing my intent, called for her vassals to observe.

Perhaps this _was_ a test, after all.

If the Gods were to blame the frost troll's appearance, I wondered if they thought our lives a joke. It confirmed what I had wondered; whether there was a nest up here, for I had read that trolls rarely patrolled in isolation. I had to wonder how Klimmek managed the Greybeards' deliveries on a weekly basis, for he was no fighter. I had only seen it before Vilkas because I'd been on alert for this particular adversary, and the wind had been at our backs, carrying its smell from his heightened senses. Gratefully, this one had been waiting in plain sight, tall on the highest peak overhanging the pilgrim's path, which mean it was taking its time to find a way down to us; crucial time that gave me a moment to plan.

A moment that was now at its crux.

As I opened my mouth to Shout the troll into a rock wall or tree, or whatever would reverse its progress, another sound split the silence; a keening, distant but firm, commanding the air to carry it to our location.

My companions ducked; both sounded cries of alarm, but I stood taller and listened as words of a _dovah_ flew to me.

" _Ni wahl zu'u naak hi, ufiik_!"

 _Do not make me consume you, troll_ , flit through my mind.

The frost troll immediately turned and fled.

"It's leaving," I deadpanned; watched it lope away.

Vilkas shot past me and a firm hand landed on my arm, towing me in my shield-brother's wake.

"As are we," he glared at the receding form then to the peak above. "I would rather face ten trolls than a dragon on _this_ mountain."

Lydia jogged into my field of view; slowed to match Vilkas' pace. "Agreed," she snapped.

"Vilkas – let _go_ of me," I insisted, baffled, belatedly remembering that they hadn't heard the translation. "It's not after us."

Vilkas unclenched his hand and shot me a warning look. "What did it say?"

"It..." I blinked; turned my eyes to my feet to watch my step for we were moving faster than we had been before, and the pass was just as icy. My heart thudded loudly in my ears; blood pumped from unspent adrenaline. "It threatened to eat the troll."

Lydia spluttered, exasperated. "That makes little sense."

"I know," I confessed with a huff of disbelief. "But...that's what it said."

They replied with almost matching expressions; I would have laughed had the uncertainty not hung so thick between us. There was no question that the keening roar had belonged to a dragon, so why hadn't it attacked us? Had Alduin awoken it only to order it to observe? And why had it called for the troll to retreat?

Was it possible that this dragon was somehow _fighting_ Alduin's thrall?

"Do you think it...knows you?" Vilkas posed with some apprehension, doubtless confused by the bright hope that flowered in my chest at the notion.

I shook my head.

"Okay," Lydia shushed. "It has given us time, whether it knows it or not. Let's not waste it."

"Aye," Vilkas agreed.

Slowly, as though testing, the wind swirled fresh snow around the ankles of our boots. Silence reigned as we made our final push for the fortress.

Both Lydia and Vilkas were visibly tense; coiled and more watchful than they had been before. When their eyes were not on the path before us, they were scanning the heights of the Throat of the World.

Finally the Greybeards' sanctuary swam into view. The swirling flurries gusting across the pass made the structure look as though it existed on a river of foamy white water.

"That troll..." Lydia suddenly spoke up. "When you said you understood what you were up against, what _exactly_ did you mean?"

My heart thumped, but I schooled myself to express nonchalance. "You know this is not my first journey to High Hrothgar."

"Hmm," Vilkas mused accusingly. "You knew the dragon would scare it off? A warning might have helped us."

"I did not know it," I owned quietly. Farkas was fine now; would he be mad if I told them about the encounter? "There was no dragon last time," I added cautiously.

"Gods," Lydia muttered under her breath, visibly shuddering. "Maybe I don't want to know."

"Well _I_ do," Vilkas insisted quickly.

"There's not much to tell," I evaded just as swiftly with a shrug. "A troll attacked us and I _Fus_ 'd it off the mountain. End of story."

My shield-brother's eyes narrowed, clearly sensing there was more. "You call yourself a bard?" he baited.

"Ooh," I turned to him fully wearing a more satisfied grin. "Good idea, brother; I'll write a song about the battle. When I have the time, that is," I added reasonably.

"Of course," Lydia groaned. "So you're _not_ going to tell us?"

I winked at her. "I would hate to spoil the ending."

"You just _told_ us how it ended!" she persisted in exasperation.

"No, I take it back," Vilkas barked a humourless laugh. " _Frost Troll Surprise_ , is a song I have no desire hear."

"Too late," I quipped merrily. "Though I _may_ change the name-"

"I'll just ask my brother what happened next time I see him," he added, promptly apathetic.

"Vilkas, _no_!" I whined.

"Is that another tablet?" Lydia's pointed interjection carried a frown of confusion.

I turned my attention toward it, grateful for the distraction. Farkas and I hadn't found many on our first journey, but Lydia and Vilkas had found all nine so far between them, and now, possibly a tenth.

"Maybe," I jogged toward it. It was half-buried in lumpy snow; a rock fall, covered long ago by many heavy snowfalls. There was no way Farkas and I would have seen it last time; we had been fighting for our lives at this very place.

My curiosity warred with trepidation; my knees sank into softer snow as I knelt before the stone, for it had fallen from its setting. The other etchings, now a sequence of events, had briefly chronicled a time where dragons had ruled and explained that humankind had risen and attempted to overthrow them. They had failed, time and time again, until Kyne had wept for man and directed an agent of hers called _Paarthurnax_ to teach humans how to use the thu'um.

Pushing aside old, crusty ice marring most of the writing with the blade of my gloved hand, I shuddered, recalling the fifth stone with bitter clarity.

 _Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world,  
Proving for all that their Voice too was strong  
Although their sacrifices were many-fold._

Perhaps the words were intended to inspire, but the refrains revealed an alarming truth that none of my history books or songs had outlined. Alduin had come before. He had been defeated, but now? He was back, and there were no armies of man and mer schooled in the Way of the Voice to fight dragonkind as Alduin revived and forced his kin to pick us off. Our armies were at war with _each other._ Only a handful of people knew anything about thu'ums; most of them resided on this mountain, kept apart from the world and its troubles.

"What does this one say?" Lydia asked.

"Not much," my throat was dry; I swallowed before I spoke again. " _The Voice is worship, follow the inner path. Speak only in true need._ "

As I read the words aloud, the wind ebbed. Crossing my brows at the sudden stillness, I glanced around us. Lydia _hmphed_ , clearly unimpressed.

"That's it?" Vilkas asked. "Nothing of you?"

"Nothing of _me_?" I turned and squared him with crossed brows as the breeze reappeared; fluttered against my cheeks. "Why would an ancient tablet speak of _me_?"

Vilkas and Lydia exchanged a swift, uncertain glance, then my housecarl stepped forward, offering her hand.

"Celeste is right. The stones before this one have spoken of the past, not the now," she helped me to my feet.

"I don't know," Vilkas remained unconvinced. "Whoever wrote these intended on passing their wisdom to somebody. Who better than the Dragonborn who would have to face Alduin someday?"

"You're reading too much into it," Lydia told him gently before I had an opportunity to consider. "They are meditation stones for the pilgrims who walk this path," she added. "A message to the Dragonborn would not have been placed on a mountain for anyone to read," she flashed me a glance. "Right?"

I shrugged. "I don't know what they mean," I admitted openly.

We stepped onto a smooth, wider path sprinkled only with the lightest dusting of snow most recently swept across it. Vilkas and Lydia continued musing over the meaning of the stones as we approached the stairs at the base of the fortress, but I said nothing as I considered for myself.

 _Follow the inner path_ , I repeated. _Speak only in true need._

What _could_ it mean? While I doubted the stones were some ancient message left for me to decode, the tenth stone had not spoken of the battle with the dragons or the formation of the Greybeards' order. The stone had been hidden in plain sight, and its words could have been meant for anyone who made it this far.

My companions hesitated when we reached the landing.

"...do we knock?" Lydia whispered.

I flashed her a look and pushed the door inward. There was nobody to meet us in the entry chamber – but then, there had been no telling when I would return, and no troll attack to alert them to my arrival. The dragon had seen to that.

 _They have been eaten by the dragon_ , an unhelpful voice chorused in my head. I pushed the thought away, but my heart plummeted. Surely not; not with the thu'um at their disposal!

 _What will I do if they are gone?_

"Hello?" I asked cautiously. My call bounced between the close walls and the torches within fluttered as the door closed behind us with a _thunk_ , echoing with abandoned finality.

 _Stop spooking yourself_ , I commanded, taking a determined step forward. "Master Arngeir?" There was nothing to fear within these walls; I had learnt that on my last journey. "I'm back," I called a little louder.

Still, no reply.

"Okay," I lifted my eyebrows, spun around to my companions. " _I'll_ show you to our room."

The eeriness left me as we wandered the long, tall halls that led to the room Farkas and I had occupied. The hallway hearths were all lit and warm; books lay open on tables beside mugs of still-steaming brews and inked quills. Wherever the Greybeards had gone, they had not been gone for long.

"Food," Vilkas murmured somewhat longingly.

"Help yourself," I instructed, motioning toward one of the preparation tables. "There's no ceremony here," I advised. "No meal times, either. Eat when you're hungry."

"Who makes a meal and leaves it unattended?" Vilkas reached toward a bowl containing an untouched slab of roasted beef.

" _Vilkas_ ," Lydia scolded; Vilkas whipped his hand back.

Amusement flickered through me; he wouldn't _really_ eat another man's food, would he? Though when I thought about it, Tilma had always taken care of the Companions meals, and he had lived in Jorrvaskr since he was a child. Did Vilkas even know how to cook? I supposed I would find out soon enough. "Why don't we unpack first?" I tried not to laugh.

Vilkas conceded defeat. "If it's here when we get back..." he murmured with a sigh.

"Yes, where are they?" Lydia asked thoughtfully. "They must have heard the dragon. They're probably outside, searching the skies."

"Or _talking_ to it," Vilkas added with droll humour. " _Asking_ it to leave them alone. It's their job to speak the dragon tongue, isn't it?"

"Sort of," I murmured and pressed on. Vilkas was not incorrect, but the way he had said it reminded me of how he disliked how the Greybeards literally placed themselves above the daily and very real needs of more common folk.

 _Well._ He had insisted on coming, and he would learn for himself what they were about.

No paper flowers or toys adorned the small, high-ceilinged dorm; in fact I doubted it had been entered since Farkas and I had ventured out. A fine layer of dust blanketed every surface including the flagstones, and the lanterns at the end of each bed were cold and long unlit.

Lydia stood in the doorway, her face a mask of disappointment. "You are _certain_ you were expected?"

"I didn't write ahead," I offloaded my bow then pack onto my bed; a cloud of dust surfaced on impact. It was heavier than usual, owing to the costumes I had assembled the previous night. They had been unnecessary for the journey with Lydia and Vilkas, but I was certain that I would have need of them, some day. "Farkas took that bed," I motioned to the one opposite mine. "Those two haven't been slept in."

"Ever?" Lydia murmured as both she and Vilkas moved toward the end of the room.

"This is adequate," Vilkas decided; his pack _thumped_ onto the bed against the far wall, causing another puff of dust to temporarily appear.

" _Adequate_?" Lydia sat gingerly on the stone bed opposite Vilkas' and huffed bleakly. "What were you expecting?"

"It's really not so bad," I voiced, hands occupied as I freed my lute from its protective furs. I had not dared wear it since we had commenced the seven-thousand steps, for I didn't want it damaged by exposure. "They put me here because there's a bathroom next door," I found a place for my lute on the dresser at the end of my bed, and returned to my pack.

"How...thoughtful," Lydia muttered dryly.

Retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, for it was near the top of my pack, I flashed her a smile. "You will be thanking them when you're soaking in a hot bath tonight."

"They have hot water?" Vilkas asked quickly.

Lydia sat up a little straighter. " _How_?"

I turned away; a cheeky suggestion that they try out the facilities together suppressed – for now. "Ask them yourself. Come on," I started for the door, horn resolutely in hand. "They'll not have gone far."

–

They were outside, crossing the flat, snow-covered courtyard I had taken many of my lessons in, walking toward the doors we had just exited out of to find them. A vivid memory flit across my thoughts as I looked across the pristine whiteness; the moment I had been taught _Wuld_ , and the subsequent practise. I had nearly sprinted clear off the side of the mountain; Farkas had _not_ been pleased.

I lifted my hand in greeting as the Greybeards, hoods raised against the whipping wind, turned their silent heads toward us. I had meant to wave, but as my fingers were closed around the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller it appeared as though I was holding it up as proof of my success.

"I'm back," completely useless words, but a more poignant greeting eluded me.

"And you have brought more company," Master Arngeir returned in a curiously flat tone.

It was the coolest he had ever been to me, and I stood taller, blinking in confusion. "Family," I corrected, lowering my hand. "This is Lydia – my housecarl and shield-sister," I introduced, "and Vilkas, Farkas' brother and Harbinger to the Companions-"

"I'm _not-_ " Vilkas hissed.

"Companions," Arngeir echoed quietly, thoughtfully. "My apologies," he shuffled closer; the guardedness gone. "I did not mean to assume."

"Assume?" I echoed swiftly.

"It matters not. What does is that you have completed your final trial," he opened his hands toward me.

I placed the horn into a waiting palm. What had he _assumed_? "As promised," I murmured, ruffled.

With a small sound of disapproval, he handed the horn back to me. "Give me _your_ hands, Celeste," he instructed patiently.

"Oh," I flushed and passed the horn to Lydia – she was closest to me – then gingerly placed my gloved fingers on top of his.

With a small smile, Master Arngeir lowered his eyes. "Sky above; voice within," he lifted his head; I realised, too late, that he had been _bowing_ to me.

"Sky above-" I hurried, lowering my eyes.

"Under the aegis of Atmora," he continued undeterred, cutting me off, his voice resonant with ceremony, "I name you _Ysmir_ , Dragon of the North."

Behind me, Vilkas sucked in a sharp breath.

Arngeir's eyes twinkled as his gaze flickered to my shield-brother. "I would advise your friends to return indoors for the next part."

I glanced back at them; Vilkas shook his head, slowly but firmly. Lydia cast him a swift, uncertain glance, finally replying with; "Where she goes, we go."

"As you wish," Arngeir conceded with another small tilt of acknowledgement. "We shall complete the ritual further afield so you might observe. Celeste?" he released one of my hands and motioned for me to move toward the others. "If you would join us?"

I found myself nodding as I stepped down automatically, nerves peaking as I drew to a halt in the centre of a circle of wise, knowing eyes. _Ritual_?

"I would advise you to cover your ears," Arngeir called over his shoulder to Lydia and Vilkas.

I turned on the spot so I could see them; watched as they both haltingly, begrudgingly brought their hands up. I was uncertain if I had ever seen the pair look so unhappy.

Then the Greybeards spoke as one in the language of the dragons, and my concern for my shield-siblings was pushed aside. There were so many words, knit tenuously together by a strange, disjointed cadence that I had heard from no dragon's maw before. Perhaps the words were ancient and had to be spoken thus to retain their solemnity, but they made the dragon tongue seem rigid and uninspiring.

While my mind translated, I understood little of what they said. They spoke of Stormcrown and a worthy brow; of Kyne, Shor, and again, Atmora of old. Despite the monotony of their words, they shook me to my core, igniting the coiling spark deep within me that spiralled up from the recesses of my soul, bright and golden and exultant to be addressed. It formed a shield around my worldly shell, and listened.

It was like absorbing the soul of a dragon in reverse; my mind relaxed, momentarily, blissfully weightless. The earth moved beneath our feet, but there was no ethereal light to blind my senses – at least, none but that which shone deep within me already. I wanted to both laugh and cry at once, but remained silent and watchful.

And when the world stopped shaking; when the Greybeards stepped back and spoke no more, the brightness coalesced and settled not to its darkened recess to be forgotten until needed again, but tight around me, warm and satisfied; as terrifying as it was oddly reassuring.

 _See_ , I asked myself?

It was a deep inner voice; a part of me that seemed smug, as though it had been waiting for me to realise something.

The ritual seemed to require only my attention, and the only word I spoke was _Dah_ ; push, after Master Wulfgar taught it to me.

It was the final word I had vowed to learn before I faced Ulfric to avenge my family, so it was ironic that upon learning it, I understood with startling clarity that I would not be the one to kill him, be it with Voice or steel.

And somehow, at this moment, that was okay.

As the power of a full Shout resonated within me, I realised that the tenth tablet's words _had_ been a message, a weight of responsibility, and a warning for me and others who carried the dragon blood before me, who had scaled this mountain seeking answers, and left it wielding a power to bring their foes to their knees.

 _Speak only in true need._

And revenge on Ulfric Stormcloak was _not_ True Need. He was tiny; insignificant. A squabbling, grasping speck, whose actions would snuff him out of existence and history no matter how brightly he burned.

"It is done," the tension in Master Arngeir's shoulders eased; a relaxed smile took its place on his aged face. "You are one of us now, _dovakiin_."

"Thank you," I let go of a deep breath, and grinned. "You will have to explain to me what that really means," I whispered.

His smile widened, but before he could reply, my housecarl bellowed from the stairs:

"Can we uncover our ears now?"

–

"So they made you Queen of the Greybeards?" Vilkas asked from the quiet seclusion of our room.

"What?" Lydia and I asked in unison.

Vilkas continued to meticulously transfer the contents of his pack into the chest at the end of his bed. "Ysmir, Dragon of the North," he waved his hand, "and – what was it? _Stormcrown_ languishing with no worthy brow, bestowed upon you?" Vilkas arched an eyebrow; I had translated the exchange for them minutes prior. "Sounds like a coronation," he surmised.

"I'm not sure that's what _Stormcrown_ represents," Lydia considered. "You are being too literal. Don't you remember _The Arcturian Heresy_?"

"What – _no_ ," I crossed my brows at Lydia, for while I didn't remember the whole, I _did_ recall that Stormcrown had something to do with Talos in that treatise. "Stop it, both of you. They were – ceremonial words used to induct a – a Dragonborn into their order," I glanced between them; they seemed unconvinced. With a start, I realised they were the same words spoken to a young Tiber Septim by a previous generation of Greybeards.

"Do you see a crown?" I pointed to my head to finalise my point. "I am their student. They would not make a _student_ their _Queen_. I'm not sure Greybeards even _have_ established leaders, and _I'm_ certainly not...not..." I spluttered; the word _royalty_ caught in my throat.

"Establishing Celeste as their leader _would_ serve little purpose," Lydia added in a reasonable tone. "Perhaps it was merely...the Greybeards way of displaying their respect for her," she seemed to be reaching.

"By naming her _Ysmir_?" Vilkas glanced between the both of us, aghast. "And _yes_ , I have read _Arcturian Heresy_ ," he seemed almost offended.

"Whatever the intent or meaning, I assure you I am none the wiser," I rose; gave up on unpacking my bag for the moment. The weighty uncertainty was a little too much. "Excuse me," I made for the door.

"Celeste – no, wait," Vilkas called after me, regretful. "We're...sorry."

"It's just that this is all so _very_ curious-" Lydia attempted.

I hazarded a glance over my shoulder; caught my shield-siblings' apologetic smiles. "It's all right. I don't understand it either," I murmured, "and I value your...take on what it might mean," I swallowed, turning back to the door. I _did_ appreciate their input; their intellects on the tangled riddle that was my purpose.

"It's okay to be scared," Lydia supplied gently. "I'm terrified, and I'm not the one everyone's calling Dragonborn," she tried to make light of it.

With a huff, I shook my head. "It's okay. I'm," I motioned toward the door, as though it explained everything. "I need some..."

 _Air. Time. Space._

My eyes fell on the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller lying amongst the clothes on my bed. "Answers," I settled with a sigh as I scooped up the ornamental horn.

"Do you want us to come with you?" Lydia offered.

I shook my head as I paused in the door arch; turned back with a practised smile. "You have done enough today. Relax," I proposed quietly. "Have a bath, take some dinner, read something. There are lots of interesting books," I flicked Vilkas a glance. "You're going to love it."

I closed the door on my bemused shield-siblings and hurried away from everything they had been throwing around; ran from how close I feared they had come to a truth I couldn't bear to wear.

What I had _not_ told Lydia and Vilkas of was the _presence_ that had woken at the Greybeards call; one that I could still feel with me now, like a wispy, silken cloak fluttering around my shoulders.

But no, presence was _wrong_ ; it was unequivocally _me_ , not another dragon whose knowledge I had absorbed. And it hadn't truly _awoken_ , either, for I had known it – or _I_ was there. It was more like another sense or new emotion; a piece of my personal puzzle, resolutely slot into place, and my surprise was in that it fit me so well. The Greybeards words, while uninflected, had invoked a feeling – a very strong, powerful _idea_ yet to be realised – or a history yet to be written – that I was going to have to get used to living with. They had drawn up potential to be actualised, like the forgotten words of a familiar song waiting to be heard for the first time in eras.

I had to admit that I _was_ scared. I _did_ need to talk to Master Arngeir, about everything – not only what their ritual had meant, but of Delphine and Ulfric, of my sister – of my encounter with Alduin, and subsequent realisation about the dragons. It was time to put everything I had learned to him, and hope that his replies would banish some of my fears.

It took a while to find him, but I eventually located the Greybeard sat close to a hearth, leant over a book and munching on a piece of plain bread, busily scanning the pages before him.

"Master Arngeir?" I came to a halt on the other side of the table.

"Celeste?" he sounded confused; sat taller in his chair and glanced beyond me. "Your companions are lost?"

"No," I shuffled, trying a smile; held out the Horn between us. "I was wondering if we could...talk about this?"

With a patient smile, he spared it a glimpse before his eyes found mine. "The horn is yours now," he began. "You look tired, Celeste. Did you not sleep well, while you were away from us?"

"Oh – no, _I'm_ all right," I faltered; took a seat perpendicular to his. "What I meant is – I didn't find the horn in Ustengrav."

"I don't understand," he frowned. "How did you come by it?"

"Delphine Comtois gave it to me," I watched him closely.

I regretted my bluntness at once; the surprise seemed to bring him pain. He considered for a time, saying nothing, growing paler and nodding shallowly. "So," he murmured eventually with a small, tight smile. "It is as I suspected. She has found her lost Septim."

"Okay, so _you're_ calling me that too, are you?" I sighed to the ceiling; let out a bleak sort of laugh. Of course he _knew._

Arngeir nodded, still sad. "Our seclusion protects our archives from the political circus that has coloured the more...official take on events at the close of the third era," he murmured. "Once Delphine realised this, there was no keeping her from our halls. For years she played the part of a disciple, and in our ignorance, we believed her sincere."

"Yes, she told me she studied here for a time with Ulfric Stormcloak," I admitted. There was much she _hadn't_ told me, and I decided to come clear, before Master Arngeir got the wrong idea. "But your suspicion is false. She doesn't care about _me_ , really. And she has some _very_ strange ideas about my purpose."

"Yes, I expect she does," Arngeir was the one who seemed tired now. "But if you are not allies, are you at liberty to divulge the nature of your acquaintance?"

"I have no desire to follow her path," I fixed him with an open look, and relief crossed his features. "I'm one of you now, Master. I'll tell you everything."

I told him of our journey; from our stopover in Whiterun to the trek through Ustengrav; the brief scuffle outside of the tomb and the necromancers within, searching for the horn. The word wall, the note, and the journey to Riverwood. On how we had met Delphine; the pattern she had found, and that she knew where the next dragon would be.

"She wanted to catch the group who were reanimating long-dead dragons, and thought that if we could get there first..." I sighed. "She was convinced it was the Thalmor."

"Delphine believes _everything_ is influenced by Thalmor," Arngeir interjected wearily.

"I know that _now_ ," I lifted my eyebrows. "But at that time, I didn't know enough about her, and was hoping she _could_ lead me to discover my purpose. Which – she did in a round-about way," I huffed incredulously. "But I'm getting ahead of myself. There _was_ a dragon in Kynesgrove," I met his inquiring eye. "What none of us expected was to witness another dragon, summoning it from its burial mound and ordering it to kill us."

He stilled. "Another?" with a nervous shuffle forward, he leaned closer. "What did it say, precisely?" he whispered.

I closed my eyes, recalling Alduin's spell or curse, or whatever it was. The words snaked up through me; clear and certain.

" _Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse. Slen tiid vo._ "

The sharp intake of breath from my Master encouraged me to open my eyes.

"Flesh against time," he muttered, suddenly as white as fresh snow. "There is only one who encompasses that Shout's knowledge. Alduin is back?" he managed.

I nodded once. Given what I had read on the etched tablets mere hours ago, I had assumed he would understand. I proceeded with my dialogue; outlined the rest of the exchange and battle and death. Master Arngeir listened, quietly fascinated and horrified.

Eventually, I explained what Sahloknir's departure had taught me.

"You were correct in your belief that the search for the horn would open my eyes to my true purpose," I glanced down to the oddly-shaped object; smiled at it wistfully. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller had led me on a much longer, stranger journey than I could have anticipated. "Had Delphine not taken it, and Farkas and I not pursued her, it might have taken me years to come to a similar understanding," I lifted my gaze again, to gauge his reaction. "I will save them. I will not rest until the dragons are free of Alduin's compulsion. Only then will Skyrim have a chance for peace."

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer relief that crossed my Master's face as he sagged back into his seat. "You _do_ understand. You are the first to – but of course," he opened his pale eyes, full of pride, "you see into the heart of the matter. The Gods chose wisely."

I did not feel the sense of betrayal I had when Delphine had withheld information; quite the opposite. Pride swelled within me – I had earned his respect. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked gently. "When we first met, you promised me that you did not know why I was Dragonborn."

"You mistake my manner, _Dovakiin_. When you first came to us, I did not know of Alduin's return," he explained gravely. "But long have the Greybeards understood that a mortal with the soul of a dragon would not be placed on Mundus to bring destruction to either their blood _or_ soul kin. It is the arrogance of man that assumes an avatar of Shor must exist to make war; to forward the desires of humankind and overwhelm the reign of the Aldmeri."

"Avatar of _Shor_?" I spluttered. Sudden, inexplicable indignation swelled within me.

"My apologies," Master Arngeir lowered his eyes. "I did not intend to offend."

"No, please," I tried to measure my tone, but words snapped out of me. "Explain what you mean. I _am_ tired," I resisted the urge to stand and storm away; to throw open the doors of High Hrothgar and Shout my fury into the night. "Just when I think I'm starting to understand what _this_ means," I indicated myself, "I am assigned...another _baffling_ label."

"I do understand your frustration," Arngeir placated.

"Well _I don't_ ," I slammed my eyes closed; forced myself to take a few measured breaths. "I don't even understand why you have made me so angry," I bit out.

"And I would never presume to tread the path of enlightenment with you," he murmured. "Had I told you all I know when you first came to us; the secrets of the Greybeards and the minutiae of our order, the weight on your grieving heart may have crushed you. You would not have been the first Dragonborn to be driven mad by expectation," he sighed regretfully, and adopted a more defeated air. "I am sorry you feel I have let you down, Celeste–"

"So am I," I whispered, trying to dash the accusation from my tone.

"- but matters of trust are rarely simple."

Had I not said the same to Delphine? With a spear of shame, the blade edge of my anger dulled.

"You have determined a true, selfless purpose that no _dovakiin_ before you has realised, entirely on your own," he continued, suffused with approval.

 _Not entirely_. I bit my lip to keep from interrupting, for it felt as though he was on the brink of another revelation.

"I am certain it is your reluctance to draw a blade or bowstring before asking those questions that you are constantly asking yourself that will save them," he opened one palm to me, "and by doing so, us," he opened the other. "It is time for you to speak to our grandmaster. I have no doubt he will tell you more, and you will understand."

"Understand what?" I faltered; my frustration now a smoking memory circled by bemusement.

"Man. Dragon. Alduin, and time. Your future through your past," he smiled. "And while I doubt it to be requisite of your destiny, it is my hope that you might come to understand us."

–

The dark night had teetered over the precipice of midnight at least an hour earlier. I stared at my gloved hand, raised toward the handle that once turned would put me outside. My eyes travelled to the dense, grey cloth covering my arm.

Would it protect me? Yes. _Yes_ – I had made the decision to trust the Greybeards. They were not Blades; more pointedly, they were not _Delphine_. Master Arngeir would not send me out to meet my death.

Arngeir had given me two gifts before I had left his table. The first had been a Shout which meant sky, spring, summer; words he said would make it possible for me to scale the heights. While it would keep the worst of the weather from harming me, the other gift had been a set of grey robes of similar design to those that the Greybeards wore.

"Must I leave at once?" I asked as I had donned the thick, weighty robes.

"As we must travel through time in its linear form," he answered, "it would be best if there were no further delays."

"But the dangers-?"

"-are only the misgivings you take with you," had been his parting words. "Danger does not await you there; only truth."

With a heavy breath that clouded before my lips, I made contact with the door handle and pushed out. A whirl of fresh, biting snow brushed my cheeks, stinging like thousands of tiny needles.

I took a step, then another toward the swirling greyness obscuring the path to the peak. My boots squeaked through the ice and in the distance the wind howled mournfully. Shadows danced before me, cast by Masser aloft, counterpointing the world of darkness with its dusky pink light.

" _Companions, Celeste_ ," Vilkas' gruff voice swam to me.

I had thought it a memory until I registered the _crunch-crunch_ of heavy boots and noticed another shadow beside mine.

Turning to face my shield-brother, "Thank the Gods," I breathed a sigh of relief.

He startled when I threw my arms around him. "Are you all right?" he asked; a quiet, concerned rumble.

Nodding, withdrawing, I fixed him with a warm smile as some of my tension eased. "Where's Lydia?"

"Asleep," Vilkas replied offhandedly. "As you should be. What do you think you're doing?"

"Asleep," I echoed gratefully. "Good. I'll be back before she wakes," I considered the peak. "I think."

" _Back_?" Vilkas began, exasperated. "Back from _where_?"

"To the summit," I crossed my brows. "To get some answers. I didn't lie to you."

"Your answers are up _there_?" he waved toward the snow dancing pirouettes before us. "Are the Greybeards trying to kill you?"

"Master Arngeir taught me a Shout to deal with the weather," I took another step, more confident with my shield-brother at my back. "Apparently the temperature isn't so bad, once you neutralise the wind-chill. Watch," I faced the black and swirling north; took a deep breath as the words rose within me. " _Lok Vah Koor!_ "

It had been my first attempt but the effects were immediate; the tempest was swept up, up and away, leaving only still, pristine landscape and a clear, star-filled sky.

"Very impressive," Vilkas drawled. "But your answers can wait until morning."

He didn't _sound_ that impressed, and I turned back to him with questions in my eyes. "What do you think being Dragonborn means, Vilkas?" I asked gently.

"That the Gods-"

"Don't," I cut him off at once; sharper than I had intended. "They have given me an affinity for languages. That's in the past, and we are looking to the future. I have told you everything that has happened, and between us, all we have is a _theory_ ; I need to stop Alduin from controlling the other dragons. I _still_ don't know how I'm supposed to do that. Do you?" I lifted my eyebrows.

He pursed his lips; his eyes narrowed slightly. "No. I wish I did."

"You and me both, brother," I reminded kindly; gave him a half-smile.

Vilkas' eyes softened. "Then we do this together," he nodded toward the peak. "We'll be back before Lydia realises we're gone."

"Do what you feel is right," I gave in, because it was easier than arguing and truthfully there was no way I could stop him from following me. I started along the path; eerily quiet, frozen twice by ice and, it seemed, time.

My shield-brother fell into wordless step beside me.

"Lydia's not going to like this," I cast him a dubious sideways glance.

"I know," Vilkas hesitated to sigh; lifted his silvery eyes to the skies before continuing. "But she will forgive you."

"Me?" my breath puffed as a cloud of white; I gave his arm a shove. "You're _awfully_ confident she won't get mad at _you_."

The bulk barely moved. My shield-brother's eyes flickered my way as he smirked. "It was your idea," he offered a half-shrug - suddenly _vividly_ reminding me of his brother.

" _So_ loyal," I huffed, turning away to watch where I placed my feet on the seldom-trodden path. The faintest tickle of wind brushed my cheeks then fled. I would need to use the Shout again soon. I crossed my arms against the cold; creeping in, but not yet intolerable.

While we walked, I distracted myself from the looming confrontation by musing over Vilkas and Lydia, fully aware that Vilkas would pick up on my regard. They had been outwardly professional since we had left Whiterun, but I had caught _just_ enough beyond camaraderie between them to keep my suspicions alive.

Another small flurry whirred before us – then another, and I stopped Vilkas to Shout the way clear before it got any worse.

Once we were moving again, I cast him a sidelong glance. "You're being very quiet. Is something on your mind?"

He smiled secretively. "Don't say it."

"Or rather, some _one_?" I lifted my eyebrows cheekily, undeterred.

"You are terrible at this, you know?" he chuckled. "Aren't bards taught subtlety any more?"

I snorted. "Difficult to be subtle when you can sense what I'm thinking," I pointed out. "I know – why don't we save all this pointless innuendo I have planned, which as you have declared, I am _not_ very good at, and you just...tell me everything?" I proposed brightly.

"You'll have to be more specific than that," Vilkas couldn't keep a straight face.

Marvelling at the good humour and the ease it loaned him, the desire to tease my shield-brother softened. With a more genuine smile, I shook my head in wonder. "Love suits you, Vilkas. Don't hide it."

He laughed again; more quietly this time, to his boots. "I must tread lightly, Celeste," he owned. "Companions don't..."

"I remember," I supplied when he failed to continue. Companions rarely found love. "What made you change your mind and let my housecarl in?" I asked.

Vilkas scanned our path, but his expression was still moderate and calm. After a moment's consideration, he replied. "She found out what I am, and hasn't run away."

"That's _it_?" I wanted to hit the unromantic oaf again; harder this time.

"That's a fairly big deal," he murmured, a little stern. "It's trust. Belief. Seeing past the...monster," his tone hinted at deep-seated regret.

"She sees _you_ ," I realised quietly. Wasn't that what all of us wanted; someone to brush away the facades; the titles and uniforms and curses and lists, exposing us but accepting who they found?

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," I understood. "Well," I huffed as we turned a corner; the path grew steadily steeper. "You have my blessing. You could not have chosen better."

"I wasn't asking for your permission, sister."

"And yet, you have obtained it," I raised my eyebrows again; my eyes danced. "Aren't you pleased I asked you _both_ to High Hrothgar?" I pipped smugly. "You may thank me by naming your firstborn 'Celeste'."

Vilkas grated a groan to the stars. "Shouldn't you prepare for your fateful conversation with destiny or something?" he drawled. "Why does he live up here on his own?"

My smile faded and I glanced up the slope ahead, reluctant to speculate because I had only just found out that the Greybeards had a master for myself. "I don't know. There must be a structure or cavern for him to call home. Somewhere to light a fire and cook. I suspect the other Greybeards visit him regularly with supplies," I shrugged. "Isolation must be part of his meditation regime."

Vilkas grew more subdued. "As is often the way," he allowed thoughtfully.

"Until they find someone to see past the monster," I pushed hopefully with a cheeky tilt. "You are together, then?" I queried.

It was another lame attempt to lighten the air before I _met with my destin_ y, or whatever Vilkas wanted to call it. For the present, I believe that was why Vilkas allowed it, and I was grateful he endured my taunts.

"Not as such," he shrugged evasively.

"Why not?"

He arched a heavy brow at me. "Did I teach you nothing?" he asked after a weighty pause.

It took me a moment to understand his meaning. "This isn't a _battle_ , Vilkas," I chided. "It's _Lydia_."

"Many a lesson honed for battle can apply to other areas of life," he retorted, glancing swiftly ahead. "I will do this my way."

I trained my focus just as swiftly, scanning for signs of movement. _Nothing. He's evading._

"If you observe for too long," I hissed quietly in case he _could_ see something I could not, "you will miss your opportunity entirely."

He flashed me an unimpressed sideways glance. "Something's up there."

"Yes," I reminded him. "That's the whole point of coming here."

"Something big," he ignored my frustration, indicating that we move to the side of the path. "There is too much weather on the peak," he grumbled.

"That tends to be the way with mountains," I sighed, but let him usher me toward the dark grey rock wall to our left.

Vilkas held up his hand for silence; his eyes were bright and watchful. For a moment, he observed and listened, then finally unhooked his bow from his shoulder with a curl of distaste. "It's a dragon," he pronounced.

"Oh," I hadn't expected _that_ ; if anything I had still believed Vilkas' attention to be on my probing questions. Glancing to the swirling snow at the peak, growing thicker and closer by the moment, I realised that soon I would need to use _Lok Vah Koor_ again, which might draw the dragon to us.

"Probably the one that _persuaded_ the troll earlier," Vilkas continued, grabbing for an arrow. He cast me a swift nod, suddenly the hardened warrior. "You ready?"

My gaze flickered toward the peak again, and I shook my head. "No," I admitted honestly, holding out the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller as though it explained why I had set out unarmed. "I didn't bring my bow-"

" _What_?" his eyes widened; hard and accusatory.

"Master Arngeir told me there was no danger here!" I defended hastily.

"At least you can Shout," he grumbled; placed his arrow and shuffled forward, "or throw that piece of curled bone at it. Let's get this over with. Can you clear the way?"

Something _wrong_ sparked at the back of my mind, and I found myself shaking my head again. "This doesn't make sense," I frowned, eyes drifting to the swirling snow obscuring our view of the dragon Vilkas could sense. "Master Arngeir wouldn't have sent me up here-"

"You're the Dragonborn and they just named you Ysmir," Vilkas cut in roughly. "This is probably another one of their _tests_."

"But he would never-" I spluttered in disbelief, cutting myself short as doubt speared through me. With an incredulous laugh, I found my voice. "You're right, this is a test!" I realised, grabbing his bow arm; urged him to lower it.

Vilkas' silvery eyes flickered to me, filled with doubt, and his arrow remained trained. "Explain. I'm listening."

"When I was talking to him," I let my hand fall back to my side; my eyes widened in accomplishment. "He congratulated me for asking questions."

"You are a _master_ of that but I hardly see how-"

"No, I mean the _right_ questions, before firing," I nodded deliberately to his bow. "He said the only _danger_ here was that which I brought with me," I lifted my eyebrows to him; paused as I took in his unimpressed expression. "See beyond the monster, Vilkas," I encouraged.

With a curse, he lowered his bow. "I thought they were sending you to meet their _leader_?" he grumbled.

I grinned, happy to have figured it out – not only Master Arngeir's palpable relief earlier, but also why a dragon had stopped a troll from attacking us. "The dragon _is_ their leader," I whispered to him and the winds beyond us. A sudden desire to _see_ and _speak_ to my kin overwhelmed me, and a Shout left my lips; this time, an exultant song. " _Lok Vah Koor!_ "

The Shout whirled from me and the path cleared as it had each previous time. As the eddies whisked away, a darkened form swam into view, tall and looming, silhouetted by the light of Masser behind it.

"It's a structure," Vilkas pointed out, shouldering his bow.

"A dragon word wall," I corrected, for it was the same height and shape as those I had stood before deep underground and plucked fragments of knowledge from.

"But where-?"

" _Drem yol lok,_ " I addressed the skies, the peak, the wall, transcending my native tongue for the words carried not only a greeting, but a promise. "Come on," I grinned at Vilkas, then ran for the clearing atop the Throat of the World, untangling the horn I had brought from the folds of my heavy grey cloak.

Drawing a long breath, I lifted the ancient horn to my lips, and blew.

" _Fwooooo-ahhhhhhh,_ " two notes blared; strong and clear and full of intent.

" _Celeste_ ," Vilkas hissed after me. "Lydia is _right_ , you _are_ terrifying-"

He continued to scold in an undertone, but I didn't hear any more over the thump and creak of snow falling to the ground and the shuffle of leather as a form, shrouded by the wall, rose before us.

The night paused; Masser was obscured and the shadow lifted itself up, and up, and up.

" _In-Jun_?"

Both acknowledgement and question, delivered by an Ancient. It resounded within me, like a victory, but the word was wrong – no, _undeserved_.

Doubtless it sounded an inhuman growl to my shield-brother, for Vilkas grabbed my arm, warning, _begging_ me to go no further. The tension around him was thick and tangible, but he said nothing.

" _Dovakiin_ ," I corrected solemnly. " _Wa wo los zu'u tinvaak_?"

After a brief hesitation, " _Zu'u los Paarthurnax_ ," the dragon replied in a deep thrum.

"Paarthurnax," I repeated in realisation.

"What is happening?" Vilkas whispered harshly.

" _Aan tiid_ ," I asked him, eyes darting to my worried shield brother. "I asked his name. Paarthurnax," I grinned in triumph. "It's the dragon that first taught us to Shout."

" _Us_?" Vilkas' grip on my arm loosened; his gaze fell to the enormous dragon. "The one from the tablets?"

"The same."

"But –" Vilkas scoffed. "That would make him – dragons are _not_ immortal, Celeste-"

"The _mun grohiik_ is correct," Paarthurnax _spoke_ , and not in the dragon tongue but in human words that caused both Vilkas and I to startle. As one, we turned slowly to observe him.

"Life of a _dovah_ must seem _unslaad_ in your fleet-ness," he continued obscurely.

"What?" Vilkas baulked.

Paarthurnax's words weren't _entirely_ correct, but my reaction was not dissimilar to my shield-brother's. I shrugged the remnant of his hold off, idly palming him the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller as I took a hasty step toward the looming figure. "You speak our tongue?" I asked, baffled. "How?"

"The _pruzah_ of exile and _bok,_ age," the dragon shuffled and a rumble that might have passed for a laugh left him. "I am very _wuh._ And, I had a worthy _Jun._ "

"I hear him, but I don't understand?" Vilkas queried in a hiss.

A part of me was frustrated by the constant interruptions, but it was a small enough part to push aside. This would have been terribly confusing for him; a combination of strangely-formed words and growls, and I had to acknowledge that Vilkas' coiled anxiety had seamlessly shifted into curiosity. " _Jun_ ," I voiced the word phonetically, as it was delivered to me. "It means..." I considered quietly, "mentor, but with more, like a leader, too," I couldn't settle on a single descriptor and was reluctant to relate the _full_ meaning; something about _king_ and _loyalty_ and _guiding light_. I turned back to the silhouette of Paarthurnax; taking in his height with a flutter of nerves. I had seen only one dragon larger than he.

"I will explain the rest later," I murmured hastily to Vilkas, suddenly remembering why I was here. " _Dreh mu tinvaak dovah, uv mun_?" I asked out of courtesy; if I desired answers, perhaps it would be easier for Paarthurnax to speak in his native tongue.

"Over _tiid_ I have learned the benefit of both. _Mu_ _tinvaak_ as the _rok_ , the sacred words, will it _,_ " the dragon lowered his head. "There is many to _mindoraan_."

Vilkas seemed to understand enough of Paarthurnax's broken speech to get by. "Don't lose your answers on my account. I'll wait," he advised; placed a cautious hand to my shoulder. "Be...careful, sister," he added in a lowered tone. "Eyes open."

"Always," I promised.

With a short _hmph_ , which I chose _not_ to interpret as disbelief, he turned and retreated toward the side of the clearing where a few large boulders had collected. If the winds picked up again, he would at least be sheltered from it.

"Your _zeymah_ does not _ov_ , trust _zu'u_ ," Paarthurnax acknowledged stoically.

" _Ni_ ," I confirmed, turning back to the grandmaster of the Greybeards. "But he trusts me," I tried to find the dragon's eyes and shuddered a sigh that misted before my lips, failing to locate anything but menacing shadow.

Perhaps Paarthurnax could sense my disquiet; he lowered his maw to the ground so that we might be eye to eye. The brightness of Masser blinded me, and I lifted a hand to shield the worst of it until the dragon's head stopped moving and his eyes found mine.

I stared, stilled by eyes the colour and age of agate and diamonds. " _Fah pogaan sul, zu'u lost hon Alduin bel,_ " he admitted. " _Zu'u kornav drey ok daal, nuz ni fod_."

 _For many moons I have heard Alduin's summons;_ weary words, rousing a frown to my face and a sad tightness to my chest. _I knew he would return, but not when._

My eyes flickered over his face; took in scars of past battles and wars not _entirely_ won. "He has summoned you here?" I queried, glancing about the clearing for signs of a burial mound, finding none. "Yet you resist his call," I pointed out. "How?"

"Not I," Paarthurnax corrected. "He awakens _dov_ ; awakens hunger. There is no resist; only _viik_ of our nature. But his words have long not reached me, while I remain _het,_ _Monahven_ , and deny."

It _was_ a little confusing to speak to him in my own tongue, for it didn't seem to encompass the gravity of what I _thought_ he was explaining. But it was as much as Vilkas and I had guessed, prior to understanding _who_ he really was; he was able to suppress a darker nature through isolation and meditation. "I _have_ felt it," I admitted quietly. "But I didn't know others could withstand it. That's why I'm here," I settled.

"You have come to deny your existence?" he seemed quietly surprised.

"No – to learn how you fight his will!" I amended hastily. " _Zu'u fen fun_. I have tasted the _fus_ of Alduin, but I have also felt that of the _dov_ ," I rushed. "I understand that I am mortal with the _sil_ of a _dovah_ , as _Bormahu_ made me. It is my duty _stin_ , to free my _sil-_ and _slen-fron_ from Alduin's command."

" _Grik,_ _hi_ _bo wah zu'u, wah hon_ _hin_ _slen_ - _fron_ _dah_ _Alduin_ _sizaan_ _wah fin_ _rath do tiid,_ " he acknowledged gravely.

His words chilled me: _So, you come to me to learn/hear how your flesh-kin pushed Alduin adrift on the currents of Time._

"What?" I wondered if I had misheard – mis- _translated_ him. Whatever he had meant, he had not said _defeat_ as the tablets on the pilgrims path implied. "I came to learn of who I am, and my purpose," I shook my head in an attempt to dislodge the confusion. "They did _what_? Is _that_ what I'm supposed to do?"

" _Dii kiir_ , the path you tread must be your own. I can tell you only that which has _vod_ ; passed, gone and _funt_ , failed."

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach; not even _Paarthurnax_ , this great, ancient dragon who had been tasked by Kyne to teach humankind their ways knew how to truly overcome him.

"Had _Bormah_ granted me the _mulaag_ to complete your quest, Alduin would be _dilon unslaad,_ " he continued.

 _Dead for all eternity._

"All right," I made myself say; took a moment to close my eyes; to breathe. He didn't know what I needed to do, but I had not expected the grandmaster of the Greybeards to reveal that, dragon or not. "Then, tell me of the past," I requested. "Master Arngeir said you could teach me my future _by_ my past," I recalled hastily, meeting the dragon's too-beautiful, too weighty gaze. "Who _am_ I?"

Paarthurnax made that throaty sound again; the one I assumed was his version of a chuckle. "I blink and you stand before me, asking the same question, _bii-miin mal Jun_?"

 _Blue-eyed little guide/king/mentor?_

"Why do you keep calling me _Jun_?" I hissed with a hasty glance in Vilkas' direction. My shield-brother had lit a fire while we had talked; his stern features, swimming in shades of flickering orange, were focussed on the flames.

"I take audience with your past as you bring them before me, _dovakiin,_ " Paarthurnax's eyes were obscured as he blinked; upon opening, his cat-like pupils widened, then thinned as Masser's glow reached them again. "Even as you _tinvaak_ , so do your forebears," his small ears flickered in emphasis, as though he were a horse shooing flies. "Some of them are very noisy."

"My apologies," quietened, I wondered again if I was hearing him correctly. With a sigh, I realised that this conversation _would_ be about the Septims, whether I wanted it or not, if he was already implying that I had brought my ancestors _with_ me. Perhaps there was no avoiding this discussion if I wanted to understand my future by my past. "Who is the loudest?" I asked with a huff. "What do _they_ say?"

Paarthurnax's amusement was still plain. "It is I who am sorry, _dovahkiin_. You ask questions _Jun_ asked of me, when first we _tinvaak_. I have missed him, these _gein_ _eruvos_. He is, as you say, the loudest."

"Then," I steeled myself, standing taller, "tell me about him, and how he came to guide a _dov_ in anything?"

" _Ol hi hind._ As you, he was _sossedov;_ dragonblood," he began.

"Was he a member of the Septim family?" I asked plainly. The stained glass relief of Talos above his shrine in the temple at Solitude drifted, unbidden, to the front of my mind, and I unwittingly shivered.

"He was a child of many families, his _vahzah_ blood unknown to him in _laas_ ," Paarthurnax acknowledged. "He was _dovakiin_ , though never named thus, and his _sil_ shone with a purpose contrary to other _sossedov_ before him. I called him _Daanteyvo,_ " Paarthanux recalled with a fondness to his tone. " _Orin brit ro_ is not as _sizaan_ on _dov_ as _jul_ would have you think. Daanteyvo taught me to _lovaas_."

I had never heard the name _Daanteyvo_ in my life and wasn't certain why it was so amusing, but it served to pique my relief and interest; I had been certain he would say _Tiber Septim._ But this name, a _dragon_ name for a human, meant _doom tale undone;_ literally the story of ill-fated destiny, turned around. This man had somehow taught Paarthurnax to _sing_ , though in the context multiple translations of _lovaas_ applied including _laugh_ and _irony_ , owing to the preceding _orin brit ro_.

An ancestor who had taught a dragon to laugh or sing did not sound so formidable; he did not fit Tiber Septim's historical profile at all. The moment the solemn weight slipped from my shoulders, as though I _did_ possess some inkling of bygone premonition, several pieces of the puzzle cast about by Delphine and Farengar and books I had read long ago clunked into place. "This...Daanteyvo was the son of Martin Septim?" I cautioned.

"He told me of both his _monah ahrk bormah_ ," the dragon mused.

"Yes but did he say their names?" I asked swiftly. As much as I had shied from the truth, now I was on the brink of it I _wanted_ to hear him say those names; both Passero _and_ Septim.

"It was for _monah_ that he came to _Monahven,_ " Paarthurnax continued as though I hadn't spoken. "He was very... _tiiraaz_ to leave his _brod._ "

 _Brod;_ family.

"He had children of his own, this is making more sense," I nodded.

"Over time, it was for _Bormahu,_ who was _sos_ _bormah,_ that he remained."

"The Septim-Passero line must have continued through the family he left behind...but," I frowned. "Why come here on his own? Wouldn't his whole family be at risk of exposure?"

"He had aged five _eruvos_ when he came to _Monahven_ , and did not leave in _laas_ ," Paarthurnax told me with a disgruntled huff. "I understand little of _drun_ , cause for _jul_ ," the dragon replied. "I understand what it is to be exiled from one's kin, and he felt the loss of his with all his _joor_ and _dovah_ _sil_."

"He spent his entire life here?" I confirmed in a small voice; Paarthurnax's grumpiness sent a guilty flush through me. I was dwelling on matters that _didn't_ further my purpose. "Okay. So he didn't know _who_ he was. Then...what could a five-year-old...teach _you_?" I tested.

Paarthurnax snorted in satisfaction. "He did not remain five for _lingrah_ , as is the habit of _jul slen_ to burn bright and snuff out. We _grah_ many lessons," he replied. "Daanteyvo did not fear me, and when first we met, he named me _zeymah_."

Now I was certain he'd used the wrong word; _brother_.

"But see – you doubt him, and deny your _kiin sos_ ," Paarthurnax accused, though I felt no aggression from him. "He had a gift for _rotahrksit,_ " the dragon continued. "Many of his _pelle_ remain with the _Sadonvum-_ "

My mind raced and my eyes widened. _Gift for language/writing – many of his books are with the Greybeards!_

"-though he did not _pel_ all he _koraav-drey_."

 _Did not write all he saw._ "He had visions?" I confirmed.

"Through _tinvaak_ to _un Bormahu_. He saw _vahzen_."

 _Truth_. _He talked with Akatosh and saw truth._

I nodded again, mentally preparing for the conversation I would have with Master Arngeir when I returned to High Hrothgar. Delphine had undoubtedly stolen one of Daanteyvo's books – the passage she had hired Farengar to translate within – but I would need to see any books that remained. And-

" _Fen hi fun zu'u pah_?" I begged. I had to soak up anything he would tell me.

" _Geh, mal dovakiin_. But first, what is your _kiin_ name?"

Again, I flushed; I should have introduced myself far sooner. Of course he wouldn't want to continue calling me _dovahkiin;_ much as I would never simply address him as _dovah_. "Celeste Passero," I spoke hastily; watched him for response. Did he know my family name; had his Daanteyvo told him the same?

"Your _monah_ gifted you a _strunmah_ title, _mal dovahkiin_." Paarthurnax repeated, testing the sounds as he ran them together. " _Selahst Pahsahro_ ,"

The translation of my name as the dragon spoke resonated, bouncing around my mind; a string of flowery words pertaining to a balanced spirit who simultaneously belonged and was instrumental to all. "No – _no_ , that's not what it means," I tried not to laugh.

"I shall call you _Selahst, briinah,_ " the dragon decided with aplomb, adding the more accepting _sister_ afterwards. "And you may call me Paarthurnax or _zeymah,_ should it please you as it did _un_ Daanteyvo."

"Okay," I settled with a smile; Selahst I could live with, for without the _Pah Sah Ro_ it meant little of consequence.

"Selahst, _zu'u ofan wah hi_ , _lingrah vod do un Bormahsebormah;_ "

Paarthurnax did like his ceremony, it seemed. _Selahst, I gift to you, in the history of our father's father's and so on father..._

He lifted his maw to the skies. " _Yol...Toor...Shul._ "

 _Fire inferno sun._

My eyes widened as Paarthurnax's Shout lit up the inky sky. I realised what he was doing just in time to keep from taking cover.

My shield-brother had no such knowledge; from the boulders, Vilkas cried out in alarm.

"It's okay!" I snapped quickly, holding my hands toward him so he wouldn't leap to my defence. "He's teaching me," I called over the roaring _whoosh_ of flames as they spiralled on an unnatural updraft, surrounding and warming me.

Not an hour ago I had absorbed the knowledge of _Lok Vah Koor_ from Master Arngeir. He had switched on my awareness of the power behind those words in a rigid, emotionless manner, conveying that when said with _focus_ and _intent_ , the sky would become clear of clouds. I had slipped into the knowledge like I might have a new pair of boots.

Accepting the knowledge of _Yol Toor Shul_ from the ancient being before me was as much a gift as it was a curse, stretching and tethering my mortal coil to a use it was never intended to endure, much less execute. It stirred a challenge within me, a taunt of what I could become, and unlocked something instinctive; a primal means to summon and breathe fire. It was so important and natural that I wondered how I hadn't come across the solution for myself.

When the words stopped ricocheting in my head and Paarthurnax asked me to show him my Voice, I nodded and closed my eyes to centre my focus.

I cleared my mind so I would not overthink it, and summoned the _memory_ Paarthurnax had bestowed on me; both glorious and terrible _._

" _Yol Toor Shul_!"

Heat gathered and flooded my mind, my veins, my throat, then erupted into the world. It was a promise, a liberty; profanity and celebration in its most powerful, potent form.

My eyes flew open and I was breathing fire. When I closed my mouth and it stopped, there was laughter from Paarthurnax and cheering from my shield-brother.

" _Rinik pruzah._ Very good," Paarthurnax rumbled. "Now, Selahst, I will tell you of _vod._ "

 _The past._

–

"Celeste? Can you...?"

"Sorry. _Lok Vah Koor._ "

I wondered if the winds were growing as tired of my interference as I was of commanding it to bend to my will. Nevertheless, the skies obeyed, and the downward pass was cleared of wind and snow, for now.

Vilkas and I commenced our descent and I stole a glance over my shoulder. Both wall and dragon on the peak of _Monahven_ were still in silhouette, now bound in pearls of a rising sun that turned the edge of the wall and the extents of Paarthurnax's scales a molten gold.

"Come on. You need sleep," Vilkas spoke quietly; his hand fell to my arm more in comfort than encouragement. "As does he," my shield brother flicked his head toward the dragon.

"I need to speak to Arngeir," I murmured, palming my scratchy eyes in frustration as I turned back to the path. "Have to...get those books."

"Later," Vilkas insisted with a hint of sternness to his tone.

 _If there **is** a later, _was on the tip of my tongue, but I clamped down upon the sullen, useless words. Besides, if I said them out loud, it might make them true.

Grimacing, I conceded with a nod because I was too weary to fight him.

Paarthurnax had told me no more of my family or Daanteyvo, but perhaps there was nothing of relevance in that regard after all. Paarthurnax and I had talked for hours about his family; his past as Alduin's General, and of how he had abandoned the dragon army to serve Kyne. Then had come the long, terrible story of mortal struggle; how Alduin had been banished and his reign delayed for a future generation of Nords to face.

The ancient Nords had assumed we would not forget that time. They had assumed we would continue learning; continue honing the thu'um, and, over time, find a way to permanently banish Alduin, when he reappeared.

Paarthurnax had not hidden the truth; there was no way to kill Alduin, at least with the small, underdeveloped grasp we had of death. Alduin was immortal; the son of Akatosh Himself. Alduin was not for _us_ to judge, regardless of his crimes.

The ancient Nords had sent him forward in time, to _our_ time, though they hadn't been in control of the when, only the how. Many had preached this as his defeat; a misuse of the word, though they had known no better in the wake of Alduin's disappearance.

And to Alduin's mind, the war had never ended.

Over those thousands of years, passing as a single instant to Alduin, we had forgotten the struggle against the dragons; grown complacent in our fragile peace, and cast aside the Way of the Voice as archaic and unnecessary. Only the hermits atop this mountain, and a fraction of disciples perceived as odd and out of touch with the real world, remained to study it, and even they had stagnated over its purpose.

There had been no Dragonborn to meet Alduin in battle then, but my dragon blood offered me no instinctive means to permanently banish him. There was no clear path forward; no Amulet of Kings, no Oblivion gates to seal, and no legendary pact with the Gods to guide me to a solution.

The only course I could present to Paarthurnax, once I understood what had passed, was that I repeat what the Ancient Nords had done to delay the final confrontation. I could only hope to send Alduin forward in time, and then teach the Nords to remember for next time. Bring the Greybeards', or at least the Way of the Voice, to Skyrim, and pray that whenever Alduin appeared, thousands of years in the future, we _would_ have the strength and knowledge to meet him, and banish him for eternity.

" _This is zok revak strunmah in Keizaal. The great mountain of the world. Here the kruziik Tongues, the first joor masters of the Thu'um, brought Alduin to battle. But he was not truly defeated. The bron used Dragonrend to cripple him, but this was not enough. Ok mulaag unslaad._ "

Shouts had always been created by dragons whose command of their language allowed for experimentation during the quiet eons before man flared into existence. Like ancient bards and mages, dragons had honed their language and life-force into spells to create moods and mountains, turn foes hearts to stone or rivers to ice and steam, and toy with the loyalties of the mind and fabric of reality. A Shout was a declaration; an observance and offering to the glory of nature and life and spirit.

But to cripple Alduin I would have to learn this _Dragonrend_ , a Shout devised by the Tongues that nobody remembered. The Shout that had been an abomination; a mockery formed by the arrogance and desperation of those who believed they had the right to twist nature's intent to suit theirs.

I could not blame the Tongues for their actions against Alduin, but it felt like a failure to follow the same path, even if it would secure the freedom of the dragons and humans of our time. My actions would doom a future generation to Alduin's fury by the most cowardly means possible.

If I could even manage it. First I would have to...

I shook my head in disbelief as Paarthurnax's regretful words replayed in my mind.

" _The bron used a Kel to send him forward, but birthed tiid-ahraan through their misuse. The wound that remains when Time is shattered. With the Kel used to break tiid, you could wundun to the other end of the tiid-ahraan. There you might learn Dragonrend from those who created it."_

So, I needed to travel back in time using an object that existed in legends and flux. An Elder Scroll; _Kel_ in the dragon tongue. One of the strange, leftover pieces of creation that only a fraction of songs or books dared speak of.

Where would I find an Elder Scroll?

–

"He was a Greybeard at the start of the fourth era," Master Arngeir explained. " _Daanteyvo_ by our grandmaster; Master Vonius by our records," he motioned toward a memorial plaque, under which stood a small, dusty shelf brimming with large tomes.

 _Dante Vonius, 4E 1 – 86,_ the plaque read.

 _Dante Vonius to Daanteyvo,_ I repeated, rolling my eyes. Paarthurnax's amusement suddenly made sense, though I did not recognise the surname. "He was a Passero?" I mused in a flat tone, wondering at my sudden lack of genuine interest.

Perhaps because who he had been and who I was didn't truly _matter_.

"You may find that answer in his books," the Greybeard proposed. "They are yours by right, and may offer you insight I cannot," he sighed at the cover of the book he held. It was bound in thick hide, dyed midnight black. "It is written that Master Vonius visioned of many things. His writings are largely indecipherable, though there are periods of lucidity."

"Okay," a more grateful reply eluded me. "Can you?" my eyes found Vilkas, and I motioned toward the books.

With a short sound of assent, Vilkas knelt before the shelf.

Lydia crossed her brows; her emerald gaze flickering uncertainly between Master Arngeir and I. "And what of the Elder Scroll, and Dragonrend?"

"The Greybeards cannot help you," Arngeir intoned, his expression at once guarded. "No records survive of that time."

 _Okay_. I had been feeling flat since I had returned from the Throat of the World, and had told Vilkas and Lydia the essentials before we had sought out Master Arngeir.

His reply, refusal, whatever it was, still failed to rouse an emotional response within me. I merely nodded, resolved to return to my room with the books. I'd have to try read them later. We had to pack. Had to leave and find someone who did know something of Elder Scrolls. "All right."

"No," Lydia cut me off. Her hard eyes were on the Greybeard, full of judgement. "Nobody likes this. But we cannot sit idle until a better course presents itself. You _will_ help her with _anything_ she asks."

"We know naught of Elder Scrolls or _Dragonrend,_ " Arngeir admitted. "Such blasphemies are the calling of heretics, not followers of the Way."

"Then we're leaving," Vilkas turned to me, standing with an armload of books. The shelf beneath Master Vonius' plaque was now empty. "I know where to find a few _heretics_ -"

"You mean mages?" Lydia arched an eyebrow.

Vilkas shrugged dismissively, adjusting his hold. "Same thing."

I faced Master Arngeir again. If I didn't try to make amends, _make_ myself feel something, I understood that I would be saying goodbye to something very important to me, though I couldn't pinpoint what. "I'm sorry I disappoint you, Master. I don't agree with learning a thu'um made by men to cripple dragons. But I don't know how to stop Alduin," my voice cracked; an edge of pleading entered my tone. "That task must now fall to a future _dovahkiin._ "

"You mistake me," Master Arngeir replied gravely. "I am not disappointed in you. I am disappointed that we have failed you."

I met his watery eyes with a frown, but couldn't find any more words to reply, not from lack of feeling but suddenly too much of it. My throat tightened around a lump that threatened to choke me.

He hazarded a brief, cheerless smile, then continued. "Perhaps your journey to uncover these taboos will open your eyes to...an alternative that marries your heart and spirit to the needs of your people. "

Though I couldn't muster a smile in return, I nodded. "I hope so. I will return when..."

I examined my future, flashing before my eyes as a series of clinical points.

 _Find the Elder Scroll. Bring it to the Time Wound. Learn Dragonrend._

 _Cripple Alduin. Send him forward again._

 _Teach Skyrim the Way of the Voice. Hope that they hear me._

It felt false but it was to be my destiny; my legacy, and it was painfully _not good enough_. I wanted more, _so_ _much_ more, but for the moment, I had no choice but to follow the path already laid by the ancient Tongues.

 _Find another way,_ I encouraged in desperation.

"If I return with the _Kel..._ " I faltered, swallowed, and opened my mouth to try again. No words emerged.

"We'll find it," Lydia finished supportively, misinterpreting my reticence. She urged me to move with a gentle arm around my shoulder, for support. "And if not," she hesitated; sighed, and the breath that left her shuddered.

"We'll find a way," Vilkas supplied; a rough encouragement as much as a command. "We always do."


	57. The Faces We Wear

_Chapter 57: The Faces We Wear_

The journey from High Hrothgar was not overly taxing. Each time the wind and snow became too fierce, I Shouted it out of our way.

But I was tired. Regardless of how much sleep I had (or hadn't) gotten, I was tired of Skyrim throwing its worst weather at me.

The weariness was shroud-like and weighed me down, and I remembered feeling heavy and bleak the last time I had left the mountain with Farkas, as well.

Would I ever venture out from a visit to the Greybeards feeling happy?

Perhaps as with danger, the only hope I would find on _Monahven_ would be that which I brought with me. I remembered feeling hope when I understood Paarthurnax was somehow suppressing Alduin's thrall. I remembered the thrill of learning to breathe fire like my soul-kin. Those potent realisations had not occurred so long ago, but the vigour had been sapped out of me by what had come after.

Perhaps the Throat of the World was a void, rendered inert by the time wound and battered senseless by furious eddies for eons until it too felt nothing, drawing energy in a futile attempt to assuage the transdimensional tear from those who scaled its heights, however fleeting their touch.

Ordinarily I did not find it so difficult to relocate my sense of hope, even if it sometimes took a timely shove from one of my friends to find it. But perhaps it had not been so difficult to feel optimistic toward a largely unknown task.

 _It is still an unknown,_ I tried to persuade myself up from the depths. _You don't **have** to do what the Tongues did._

No, I did not, but until I could find some alternative, I had to pursue their path.

The sun had set by the time we reached Ivarstead and I didn't need Vilkas' heightened senses to know my companions were also feeling discouraged. I had suggested we stay the night at the Vilemyr, and we could decide what to do in the morning. We had barely said three words to one another, but it was not difficult to encourage them to remain in the common room.

They needed some time together, and I needed some peace.

I retreated to our room; glanced around the space, _willing_ myself to like it, but one word stuck in my thoughts; _drab_. It was larger than the room Farkas and I had stayed in last time. This one contained four single beds pressed against the walls and tried to exude warmth with dust-free surfaces, simple but cozy bed coverings and vases of wilting wildflowers perched on the dressers, but everything felt too aged to be welcoming. The window was cracked open, letting in a curl of fresh, frigid air.

But the oil lanterns had been lit, and our bags already allocated to beds by whatever logic publicans used. I kicked off my boots, peeled off my warm outer layers and armour, then sat on my bed and reached for my pack, letting the cool night ruffle my hair and goose-pimple my skin. It was cold, but it was good to feel _something_.

I wanted to open one of Master Vonius' books, even if I gained no understanding of what I read. Vilkas had carried most of them, but the two smallest of the six were secured at the top of my pack.

Instead, my hands found the ties and furs wrapped around my lute, and I changed my mind. An urgency swept through me; a panicked plea that I give in to the luxury of music.

 _Luxury?_

Untying with swift, deft motions, I uncovered then cradled the beloved object in my lap; closed my fingers around the body and frets and pressed my forehead to the strings.

I squeezed my eyes shut in effort to suppress a sudden lump in my throat, threatening to choke me.

"What do I do?" I whispered thickly.

Silence met my words but, like a gentle breeze, a memory drifted to the front of my thoughts. In my mind's eye I saw Hadvar; eyes adoring, bright with pride, and mouth curled in a fond, loving smile.

" _Play your lute for me, okay? Every day."_

 _Thank you, my love_. Hundreds of miles away and he was helping me, even if the thought of him made my chest ache anew.

His simple request served as a point of focus; a promise I could keep in a quagmire of impossible duties. Drawing back to position my hands, I tuned, allowing myself a moment's reprieve from the fate of the world as I focussed on only that which was before me.

When my lute was ready, I played. With my mind fogged, a song that might bring hope or insight eluded me, and I did not feel like singing, so I ran through scales and arpeggios to warm my fingers up. For a few, blissful moments, I existed in the now.

I reached G minor in my sequence and a tune drifted through my thoughts to counterpoint the melancholy timbre.

" _Hmm, hmm-hmm_ ," I hummed; crossed my brows as recognition flared. Fingers stilled then repositioned; I tested strings hastily until I found the notes again, lest they flit away on the nighttime breeze before I could catch them.

It did not take long because I already knew their shape. It was the yearning G-D-E pattern I had happened upon on my journey to Whiterun. But unlike that journey, where I had been merry but cautious of the melody and the _Truth_ I had been certain it would unlock, I now felt no such reserve.

What did it matter if I played these notes; formed this song? Music would not lead me to an Elder Scroll _or_ a way to banish Alduin. It was just a tune; one that had found me and wanted to be remembered – no, _created_. Who was I to deny its existence?

I closed my eyes and let the music come. The wind whistled through the window and brushed at my cheeks; a wordless taunt, or warning. I ignored it. With my mind quietened and my attention focussed, I let the melody fill me; let it course around and eat at my worries and disappointments like bright rivulets of water sparkling in the morning sunlight, following a familiar path around lifeless boulders.

There were no words, but perhaps lyrics would come over time, or perhaps this song didn't need any. The longer I could work it, the sooner I would know. The trick was to not overthink it, and let the music simply _be_.

I opened my eyes; stared down at the fingerboard and positioned obediently. The poignant G-D-E began the story, and my hands filled in the next note, and the next.

It was both gruelling and thrilling to actualise the lilting, thirsty song. This feeling was not entirely new to me; perhaps why I felt qualified for _this_ task at least, for the intensity did not immobilise me. I had composed frequently when I had thought only of music, in the time before I had stepped into Skyrim and opened my eyes. Back then I had drawn from what little I knew of love and beauty and suffering and betrayal; mere glimpses, or caricatures of more formidable realities, learned from stories and songs and imitated to the best of my abilities.

" _I am certain it is your reluctance to draw a blade or bowstring before asking those questions that you are constantly asking yourself that will save them, and by doing so, us."_

I had only myself to blame for my innocence; for believing that the next great sage or Master would give me answers to solve my problems, or teach me the skills I needed to meet my duty. My music until this moment had reflected an idealism that I feared very suddenly lost to me, forever. It had been more hopeful and dramatic because I hadn't _known_.

The Deans at the College had never made life easy or comfortable; they didn't sugar-coat our futures or give awards for good behaviour. We had to work at our skills; hone our talents, expose our weaknesses and do battle with them until they were weaknesses no more. No single Dean could teach anyone everything there was to know about music; _nobody_ had all the answers. They were conduits, directing our focus so we might stumble upon our answers for ourselves. They had encouraged us to examine every potential and to study what had been done before us with enough detachment to learn our most important of life's lessons.

" _If you ever stop pursuing that elusive better way,_ " Dean Gemane, the history professor, had said during our first lesson, " _then you might as well go home now._ "

We worked hard because we loved music.

 _I work because I love._

Perhaps that was what this song was trying to remind me.

When the demands on my focus calmed, I felt the melody settle. I practised it again and again until it was seared onto my soul and I knew its form by heart, though it felt unfinished, as though I was yet to experience its full potential.

And when my eyes grew heavy and my hands stilled, I placed my lute on the dresser at the end of my bed, even as the tune continued to thrum within me. Another familiar feeling from my previous life; the song might be with me for days, but that was okay. Once, I had considered it normal to listen to a song as it formed in my mind.

 _Your story isn't over_ , I thought as I regarded my instrument; ran my fingertips over one of the smooth, silvery lines that repaired a fissure. _You fractured, and parts of you shattered and were lost forever. But you were saved, and remade stronger than before; nurtured by those who love you. You are still capable of making beautiful music; perhaps some of the best music you have ever made._

 _There is hope yet._

–

"Farengar is sure to know something of Elder Scrolls," Vilkas proposed from the breakfast table. "We should make for Whiterun and start by questioning him."

My heart leapt in fear; Vilkas stilled; glanced to me hastily, his brows crossed in confusion. "You don't...what?"

Lydia groaned; palmed her forehead. " _He's_ your heretic?"

Vilkas' eyes flickered to my housecarl. "What's wrong with Farengar? We need a mage – he's a mage."

"He's _obsessed_ with dragons," Lydia reached for her mug; strong, dark tea with a splash of milk. " _And_ being paid to research Celeste's ancestors by _Delphine_."

"How is that a bad thing?" Vilkas queried, genuinely confused. "This _is_ about dragons, and Celeste. He _will_ know-"

"It's not safe to involve him," I cut in quietly before they entered into yet _another_ debate. Meeting Vilkas' eye, I shook my head in pointed refusal, yet apology. "He knows too much about me already."

Vilkas grimaced but seemed to accept. His gaze lowered to his food and he speared a piece of tomato that squelched under the force of the metal prong. "You would rather speak to a mage who knows nothing of your...family secret?"

" _Yes_ ," both Lydia and I chorused.

"How does _Farengar_ know about that?" Vilkas asked with some frustration.

"Delphine," I rolled my eyes. "The book she stole from the Greybeards was one of Dante's," I lifted my eyebrows.

"Ah. And you believe anything you tell him may get back to her?"

"Not may, _will_ ," I stared down at my food as my stomach clenched. "Without a doubt. Who else can we go to?"

"We need to get that book from her someday..." Lydia sat back to consider, then waved her hand. "But not today. What about the College of Winterhold?"

My eyes widened in realisation. "What about Giselle?"

Lydia spluttered and coughed. " _Not_ what I meant."

It was Vilkas' turn to glare. "Be reasonable."

"College of Winterhold has _plenty_ of mages," Lydia added swiftly as she took a quick sip. "All of whom are not," she lowered her tone, even though we were the only occupants of the pub, "working for the Thalmor _or_ the Stormcloaks."

I shrugged; stared at my breakfast and made myself pick up my fork. "I know you don't like her-"

" _Like_ her-?" Lydia bellowed.

"I don't know what to think any more," I admitted grumpily. "The last time we crossed paths, she saved my life."

"After she cast a spell on you to make you talk," Lydia placed a consoling hand on my arm; her fingers trembled with restraint. "Remember that part?"

Vilkas ran an agitated hand over his face; pushed his hair back. "Think of what she will do with any information you give her, _before_ you set your heart on finding her," he pleaded. "If _either_ of the forces she might be working for know you are after an Elder Scroll-"

Again I shrugged; I was not certain she would divulge such information to whoever her superiors truly were. I couldn't find the words to tell my shield-siblings why I had suggested her, nor had I thought her through to conclusion. When Lydia had said Winterhold, it had simply reminded me of Giselle, even though I knew better now; she had never attended the College.

Now the idea was upon me, I was certain, _so_ certain that she would know something of Elder Scrolls, perhaps simply because she had been three steps ahead of me for this entire journey. Of _course_ Giselle would already be in pursuit of what I required. But I didn't know where my sister was; the last place I had seen her was the Thalmor Embassy, and if I returned there, Rulindil would want to have our little _talk_ and question me about Delphine, which would waste precious time and risk exposing a _whole_ lot more. Given the embrace he had witnessed between my sister and I upon exiting his office, he would find it suspicious that I didn't know how to make contact with her.

With a shudder, because making the Thalmor suspicious about _anything_ would only lead to trouble, I tried to focus on the logic both Lydia and Vilkas were striving toward.

Instead, the insistence to _find Giselle_ grew ever stronger.

"I see your point," I conceded quietly. "But I am prepared to cast personal matters aside. She is a mage and through her connections will probably have the information I seek, if she is willing to help Skyrim."

 _If she is willing to help **me**._

Silence met my words. I looked to each in turn when they didn't try to talk me out of it; both seemed lost for words.

 _Personal matters aside,_ I echoed, taking a bite of toast. _Winterhold, Giselle, or Farengar?_

 _Why not all three?_

"We should split up," I decided.

"No," Lydia protested through clenched teeth. "This is all going _wrong_ -"

" _Listen_ ," I lifted my eyebrows. "We need information, and we have each come up with a viable resource. We'll get this done faster if we split up and pursue all three."

Vilkas didn't seem pleased either, but at least he wasn't spluttering like Lydia. "Not an option," he said sternly. "Where you go, we go," he flickered a glance to my housecarl.

"Exactly," Lydia supported.

"Then we look for Giselle," I put to them with a flat expression.

" _No_ ," both Lydia and Vilkas fired up.

The table shook as Vilkas slammed his mug down; the handle cracked off under the force. "Celeste, your sister _will_ betray us," he spat.

"Okay," I leaned forward, meeting Vilkas with a challenge. "Then we _split up_. Lydia, you go to Farengar. He knows where your loyalties lie and won't _dare_ draw anything of the dragons or my ancestors from _you_. And you," I lifted my eyebrows to Vilkas, my voice rising in command. "You find my sister then bring her to me. You have the best chance of locating her, and discreetly withdrawing her from whoever she is currently working with."

"No-," Vilkas shook his head vehemently but I wasn't done.

" _I_ will go to Winterhold," I cut in. "I will buy my answers if I need to. Students will tell you anything for a chance to pay off their loans," I murmured disdainfully.

Vilkas _tried_ to suppress his frustration, but his mouth curled down as his eyes flashed gold. "You have never been to Winterhold, have you?" he bit out.

"Vilkas-" Lydia soothed quietly; placed her hand on his arm.

"No," I admitted with a lofty sigh, unwilling to be ruffled. "I hear it is cold."

"It has nothing on the Throat of the World. But yes," he agreed in a hard, emotionless tone as his shoulders slumped. "It is a strange, cold place, full of strange, cold people. Why would you go there without us?"

"I will not be there long," I assured him. "If I can't find what we're after, we can...regroup in Whiterun..." I drifted off, then wondered why we were arguing at all.

Vilkas tossed his fork at his plate; it clattered noisily. "This doesn't feel right."

" _None_ of this feels right," I corrected. "This is just the first step in a series of _bad_ steps that will lead me to a _bad_ solution," I reminded him angrily. "If we don't examine _all_ options, we may never find our alternative."

Lydia's eyebrows shot up in realisation. "That's why you're suggesting we split up? Oh, little one, we will sooner find the correct path _together_ -"

"Better chance if we ask everybody-" I insisted.

"New plan," Vilkas cut me off this time. "I go to my brother. Tell _Hadvar_ your plan to storm Winterhold on your own," he threatened with a nod toward the door as though he meant to leave at once. "You don't want to disappoint him, do you?"

"That would be a waste of time we do not have," I squared him; grit my teeth. This had nothing to do with Hadvar, though my heart leapt at the possibility that Vilkas could go to him now, and bring him back to me.

 _To what end?_

"Strip away this... _emotion_ , and you will see it my way. We need information, and we need it fast," I explained, determined to sway them. "We three are not incapable of action and subtlety, even in isolation," I wove. "I don't want to leave you or go anywhere on my own – but I want this to be _over_ ," I admitted, suddenly desperate. "The sooner we find an Elder Scroll, or unearth another way to banish Alduin, the sooner it will be _over_. So please," I closed my eyes. "Just...let's get this _done_."

After a tangible hesitation, Lydia spoke up.

"Who will watch your back?" she pleaded in a low, somewhat scared voice.

I stood and wiped my mouth on my napkin, placing it purposefully in the centre of my mostly uneaten breakfast; my intention to pack and depart. My stomach was in knots; if I ate any more now, I would certainly throw up.

"The Gods," I muttered.

"Sit _down_ ," Vilkas insisted. "This isn't right. You go to Winterhold alone and you _will not_ return. I _cannot_ ignore my instincts. Lydia," he shot her a glance, before I had processed his claims. "You are the least conspicuous. You go with her," he grumbled.

"What of Farengar?" I asked pointedly.

"Lydia's suggestion is better," Vilkas defended. "The mages at Winterhold will know more about Elder Scrolls than the Jarl's wizard will, and we don't want Delphine to learn what you're up to unless we have no other choice."

"But we need to explore _all_ -" I fired up, exasperated.

"Little one, calm down," Lydia spoke over the top of me, holding out her hands. Her eyes were hard and dangerous, and I had a feeling I was about to taste her 'mum' voice. "You might be the Dragonborn, and Kodlak may have named you Harbinger, but we are in this together, or not at all. We're a team. Nobody," she shot Vilkas a hard look as well, "leaves this inn until we are _all_ in agreement. And if I must agree to Vilkas locating your sister, then _you_ must accept I am coming to Winterhold with you."

I closed my eyes; took a deep breath so I wouldn't snap back at her. She was right, and she did not deserve the brunt of my frustration in my task. Neither of them did.

"Fine," I breathed.

And that was that.

Within the hour we were ready to depart; Lydia and I for Winterhold, and Vilkas for Solitude to track my sister's whereabouts. If Vilkas retrieved Giselle he would send word to the inn in Winterhold that would help us to locate him.

If he didn't find her within a week, we were to leave and return to Whiterun to regroup, where we would attempt to draw whatever we could from Farengar.

I had ordered Vilkas and Lydia away from one another, but I could see no alternative not borne of whimsy irrelevant to my goal, and they would not agree to let me travel alone. I had wanted to keep them together so they didn't have to waste all that time apart – so that they might have the time they needed to come to some arrangement, and find a moment's happiness in this crazy sequence of events. I knew what it was to conduct a relationship leagues from ones partner; very, _very_ lonely.

But it seemed that I had failed. Well. We would have to put our wants and needs aside for the moment. They would only be parted for the better part of a week; Hadvar and I had endured much longer separations.

When I left our room I had assembled a reasonable guise to travel under. I had hidden the Whiterun horse on my chestplate with a green, sleeveless tunic with long splits for riding, and a thick, brown, v-shaped belt, leaving most of the arms and tasset exposed.

I used the issue of wearing armour to my advantage. Alvor had made it multi-purpose; beautiful enough to appear ceremonial at first glance. So I wore it as a warrior bard would; one who sang mighty ancient songs of victory and the glory of Sovngarde. My hair was braided and knotted on top of my head in an array of woven strands that curled down to brush my shoulders. All that was left was to hide my bow and strap on my lute.

When I met my companions by the horses, Lydia threw me a short, worried smile. "You look very beautiful, little one. Perhaps _too_ beautiful," she murmured. "We will be remembered."

She was dressed in a common tunic over her armour, for I insisted that if she traveled with me, she adopt a disguise with me. A wandering bard would never be able to afford a bodyguard, so she would have to play the part of bard as well, but Lydia still looked like hired muscle armed with her swords instead of an instrument. I scrutinised her ensemble; we would have to do something about that.

It was then that I noticed the heavy black warpaint; smeared lines under her eyes, and slashes around her upper arms and wrists, all made by fingers larger than hers.

 _Vilkas helped her._ With a small start, realisation bloomed and a bubble of delight burst in my chest. "A bard endeavours to be remembered," hastily, I turned to Misty and strapped my bow underneath her saddle, trying to focus on the task ahead and _not_ the thought of Vilkas brushing warpaint over Lydia's skin.

 _Had_ they come to some arrangement since we had arrived at the Vilemyr? The idea carried a bittersweet tang of hope; one that I longed to latch onto.

Vilkas was by my side but I didn't notice he was there until he cleared his throat.

With another start, I faced him; arched an eyebrow at his grumpy expression. _He does not look like a man in love._

"You look too much like you," he grumbled, then twisted his hands together.

I wrinkled my nose and was about to ask him what he was doing when one hand uncovered the other. A small pot was in his palm, and his raised fingers were smeared in black kohl. "Warriors wear warpaint. Even the ones who sing songs."

"Oh," clearing my throat, I admitted innocently, "Well. I suppose you did a _lovely_ job with Lydia's makeup. Why not?"

"It's not makeup," Vilkas mumbled; eyes focussed on my cheek. "Tilt your head up a little."

I tilted up, giving him better access to my features.

"Makeup, warpaint," I sing-songed quietly. "It's a good idea, Vilkas. Or was it Lydia's idea?" I arched an eyebrow.

He ignored my smugness, though quirked a half-smile then painted a stripe on each cheek; his motions swift and deft. "Close your eyes," he murmured.

I closed them; a gentle smear brushed my eyelids. A memory flit over me; preparations for performance assessments at the College, long years past, when Ataf had done the same for me; always ready to lend a helping hand at a word's notice.

"Open – slowly – and look up."

I did as commanded and faced the soft, pale sky, noting how the memory of Ataf, for the first time, didn't hurt or embarrass me. Perhaps I was starting to forgive myself for not realising he had felt something for me; for using him, as unwitting as it had been.

Vilkas daubed a few more times. "What do you think?" he asked over his shoulder; his eyes focussed, scrutinising his work.

Booted footfalls approached. "She really looks like your sister now," Lydia scoffed, though her tone was warm; impressed even.

"Ah, good. Formidable and fierce," Vilkas huffed as he stepped back; crossed his arms, inspecting my face.

Lydia scrunched up her brow. "No. She's still too pretty."

"Pretty can be dangerous," Vilkas flashed Lydia a narrowed, sideways glance. "You think I'm _pretty_?"

I laughed warmly; they were going to be _fine_. "Will it wash off?" I asked, glancing around for a reflective surface, but located nothing.

"Not unless you go swimming," Vilkas shook his head; twisted his hands together again, then passed the closed pot to Lydia. "But you'll need to touch it up if you sleep in it. Use oil if you need to remove it quickly."

"Thank you," I accepted his advice – and stared up in bemusement to the beloved family member who I had insisted go in the opposite direction to me and the woman he admired against his better judgement and nature, to locate a dangerous woman who would probably fight him the whole way back to us. He had not only agreed to my scheme; he was helping to prepare us for yet another separation.

And he was serene. Either his wolf agreed with this course, or he was in control of its response to our looming departure. Or...

With a tightening to my chest, I realised that it was highly possible that Vilkas no longer _needed_ me. When had _that_ happened? Was it Lydia's doing, or something else?

They were both smiling now, perhaps in amusement, perhaps in endearment. I fixed Vilkas with a wary glance. "You haven't turned me into a cat or anything ridiculous have you?"

Vilkas chuckled and looked to the ground. "I wouldn't dare."

"Though, that would be _adorable_ ," Lydia interjected quickly, hitting him in the arm. "Why didn't you think of that?"

"Ow!" Vilkas grabbed his arm, shooting Lydia a scandalised look. "Why would you hit my pretty muscles?!"

I couldn't hold back my laugh and there were tears in my eyes, but I blinked them back hurriedly and glanced to the brightening skies to stall their course. I didn't want to undo Vilkas' work straight away.

Soon it was time to go; the sun peeked over the horizon as herald to our departure. The shadows of pre-dawn slunk back, and while I still had no answers and didn't like the path laid out before us, it felt good to be moving again; to be working toward _any_ future. We left our shield-brother in warmth and – it was possible – hope, with a repeated promise to wait for word at the inn in Winterhold.

While we were dressed to impress anyone who crossed our path, Lydia and I decided to take the safest route north; one that avoided Windhelm and other major settlements entirely. I had been so readily accepted as my sister there that I did not doubt I would be recognised again if I ventured too close to the base of Stormcloak operations, only now she was not perceived as their ally. No, Windhelm was too dangerous.

Lydia and I travelled due east all the way out of Whiterun Hold and into Eastmarch, to the mountainous path that bordered Morrowind with only birds and the occasional rabbit for company. Despite the ever-ascending path toward the Velothi ranges, it was noon before we encountered any snow to hinder our progress, just as we reached the junction in the eastern road that would take us north.

We stopped to rest the horses and took lunch by a cluster of worn, cube-shaped stones that had undoubtedly been ancient columns some eras past. The pass directly north was bordered by more of these grey-stone markers, tipped with white and leaning at odd angles; a once-organised road left to nature and time's devices. The tall, silent sentries veered to the right, marking a pass completely obscured by boulders and snowfalls, and continued up into the highest misty peaks beyond.

After lunch, Lydia took the lead, and I directed Misty onto the road after her. It was as straight as the landscape allowed, for it was Legion-built and maintained, but the pebbled path was still encrusted with old snow and thick, stubborn tufts of grass. "Where do you think the other path leads?" I asked Lydia. My words seemed to be swallowed up by our surrounds.

Lydia shrugged; turned sideways to scrutinise the barely-standing stones. "Dwemer temple?" she suggested. "They used to build structures on this border, didn't they? For all the good it did them," she murmured, turning her eyes back to our path.

 _Dwemer,_ I echoed in wonder. Misty clopped obediently behind Lydia's mount, and I studied the line of tall, weathered stones until we rounded a bend that hid the remains from view. As with most history, all I knew of the Dwemer had been read in books or learned through songs, and was sketchy at best. They had been grand architects, alchemists and engineers; that was undisputed owing to what remained of their culture in plain sight. But one pointed fact dominated their story and coloured their glory, depending on who related their tale; that they had been the sworn enemy of the Aldmeri. Everything else about the Dwemer's lives and disappearance from Nirn was hazy. There had been no war to wipe them out; according to the legends, the Dwemer had been there, and then just...vanished.

"Don't panic, but – there are riders approaching," Lydia whispered, snapping me out of my musings.

My eyes darted to the road ahead as my thoughts scattered and reformed, directed on the now. While I could see no signs of approach, I could make out the distant clop of horses hooves in the gravel. "Let me do the singing," I hissed hurriedly.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Lydia drew her horse back to ride beside mine, resting more casually in the saddle as though she didn't have a care in the world.

I feigned a comfort I didn't feel; my eyes glued to the corner they would round at any moment; reminding myself that if they _were_ Stormcloaks and they _did_ recognise me, I could fall back on _Fus Ro Dah_ to get us out of here.

I wanted to cry with _relief_ when the riders rode into view; their allegiance at once apparent. They both carried shields bearing the Emperor's dragon and were decked out in the armour of Imperial officers.

"Thank the Gods," I sighed. Lydia mirrored my smile, then lifted a hand in greeting as the two Legion soldiers drew closer.

They were suitably wary. "Whoa," the first to reach us pulled back on his reigns; shot us a curious look. "What is your business here? This road is off limit to civilians."

 _Damn._ I was going to have to explain, and I didn't feel comfortable bare-faced lying to Imperial soldiers. "I'm sure General Tullius won't mind us using it," I smiled reassuringly.

The second Legion officer arrived; shorter and younger than the first. She pulled her mount up and frowned between Lydia and I. "You won't find anyone wanting a song up here, lass," she offered in a thick highland Nord accent. "Better you stick to the inland roads for that."

Lydia snorted; arched an eyebrow; shot me a look of disbelief. "Well, your disguise works," she commented.

"It's meant to work," I reminded her, holding out my hand to the first who had stopped, as he was closest to me. "Sorry, where are my manners? Celeste Passero," I greeted, taking in his ruddy, weathered skin and thick blonde hair, and eyes the colour of honey. "And this is Lydia, my housecarl."

"Officer Vale Harkensen," the man replied dutifully, accepting and shaking my hand. "Passero?" he added in mutter, wincing as he mulled over the name.

His companion choked on a cough. "You're the one-!" she exclaimed; her deep brown eyes widened in realisation. "I'm Thora," she held out her hand urgently. "Thora Starkad. It's – it's an _honour_ to meet you, Lady Dragonborn."

"Dragonborn?" the first's eyes shot back quickly; glanced over me, narrowed in inspection.

"Apologies, my Lady," Thora laughed nervously, seemingly caught between embarrassment and delight as she raked her helmet off and lowered her eyes. Her hair, nearly black, flopped around her cheeks in traditional Nord plaits, though the rest tangled around her shoulders. "Vale's been stuck out on the border for too long. Are you in need of assistance?"

"We are well provisioned," Lydia replied smoothly, though not unkindly.

"Our garrison is camped not ten miles north of here should you require lodgings and food for the night-" she added hopefully.

"Thank you," I spoke up quickly. "But it is as my housecarl says. We are bound for Winterhold on an urgent matter and cannot delay. It was...is always lovely to meet officers of the Legion," I winced; I didn't know how else to get us on our way again.

"Winterhold?" the older soldier, Vale, frowned; shook his head, as though we were at liberty to change our minds. "That's Stormcloak territory, far more dangerous than Eastmarch at this time, ma'am. You should not be going there alone."

"She's not," Lydia reminded him dryly.

"Let us at least escort you to the southern bank of the White River," Thora insisted, motioning north. "This road is patrolled by our unit, and our presence will keep you from having to repeat your story."

I looked to Lydia; her mouth thinned and her brows were barely knotted, betraying a hint of frustration, but her response was a brief shrug.

"Thank you," I accepted gracefully and added a small nod of appreciation. "How fortunate we crossed paths."

"Anything for our Lady Dragonborn," Thora assured hopefully as she wedged her helmet back on.

As four, we clicked our horses into action and set out at a leisurely clop.

"You sure about this?" Lydia drew her horse up to ride beside mine. "If word gets out we're headed for Winterhold-" she murmured.

"It's fine," I shushed her. "Thora is right; their escort can only make this part of our journey faster."

With a laborious sigh – she was clearly unconvinced – Lydia guided her horse back into formation. For a few miles our group rode in single file and silence; Vale in the lead and Thora at the rear.

But before long the road widened and Thora took the opportunity to guide her horse up next to Misty. "Sorry to intrude, my Lady. I just wanted to say – I know your fiancée. I served with Tribune Reidarsson at Korvanjund, and in the Pale, before I was sent to the Eastmarch camp," she offered out of nowhere with another nervous smile.

 _Tribune?_

"You know Hadvar!" I exclaimed, eyes widening as I turned in the saddle to better see her. No wonder she was so eager to help. Behind me, Lydia's eyes snapped to us in interest.

"So he has been promoted again?" I babbled, grinning gleefully at the young woman. "Do you know if they retrieved the scouts at Fort Kastav? _Was_ it a trap?"

"Steady, my Lady; he is well, and the scouts survived," Thora dug around in a satchel strapped across her body.

Briefly, I closed my eyes in abject relief.

"It seems you already know the full of it," the officer continued. "But the report arrived this morning – I have it here, if you'd like to read it."

"Very much so!" I pounced on the opportunity to hear about Hadvar's progress – about him at all.

 _Sun's Dawn 6, 4E 201, for immediate circulation to all officers of the Imperial Legion._

Naturally the report only dealt in history in case it made it into enemy hands; the latest achievements of the garrisons posted all over Skyrim. I read hurriedly, glossing over the victory in the Rift that secured the Hold for the Legion.

After that was a brief paragraph on the mission to Fort Kastav – but there was no mention of Hadvar at all. Rather:

 _Four of our scouts have been successfully retrieved despite misleading information provided by the false Dragonborn, Giselle Passero, which was intended to trap the recovery team. The officers in charge evaded capture and liberated our scouts, returning to Solitude with zero casualties._

And then, to leave no doubts about her status:

 _Let it be known that Giselle Passero is an enemy of the Empire and Dominion. Any information on the whereabouts of this Stormcloak spy, responsible for the deaths of many Legion officers, men and woman in the Empire's employ, and the release of a dangerous criminal being held for questioning, should be reported immediately with the highest priority to General Tullius._

Okay. So, _somehow_ , Giselle had been exposed. She _was_ a traitor to the Empire. Of _course_ Fort Kastav had been a trap, and of course my sister had laid it. Knowing that all involved had survived, and vindicated in sending Farkas after Hadvar, I was relieved to finally, unequivocally understand both that Giselle _was_ working with the Stormcloaks, and that she had escaped the Thalmor before they had found out about her. Everything I had seen at the Embassy, with the exception of the flicker of panic before she had frantically insisted I leave, had been a ruse. The Dominion would be furious with her; nobody deceived the Aldmeri and lived for long after, though if Giselle was able to return to Stormcloak, perhaps he would offer her protection?

Would he, though? Her cover had been blown twice now. Unless he truly cared for her, I could not see him accepting her back into his ranks; her usefulness as a spy was at its end, and his army would never trust her.

This truth left a bitter tang in my mouth but I was not all that surprised by at least this turn of events. If Giselle was on the run; if she could not return to Windhelm – perhaps sending Vilkas after her had been the best thing to do. She now had nothing left to lose; nobody left to go to. Vilkas had the best chance of finding her, and if she cared at all for the fate of Skyrim, or of me, she might willingly help us. Particularly if we offered her sanctuary; somewhere out of reach of the Legion, the Stormcloaks, _and_ the Dominion.

 _Does such a place exist?_

I would have to think on it. I made myself read on, and finally found the names of the officers most recently promoted:

 _Tamriel honours the deeds of the following brave men and women:  
For services in the battles for the Rift, officers Mekdar Braggart, Lynlanna White-face and Merten Walker are promoted to Praefect.  
For his sacrifice in the name of his garrison during the battle for Riften, Tribune Thurlin Hollowleg is posthumously promoted to Legate; may he find glory in Sovngarde.  
For the successful liberation of Legion scouts held captive in Fort Kastav, Praefect Hadvar Reidarsson is promoted to Tribune._

I sighed in longing at the mere sight of his name; eyes bright with pride as I continued to scan.

 _For his assistance, instrumental in the retrieval of scouts held in Fort Kastav, Farkas Jergensson of the Companions is henceforth awarded honorary title of Auxiliary._

 _Long live the Emperor._

"What?!" I screeched in surprise. Misty was as unaffected as ever, but the other horses jumped at my outburst and all three of my companions shot me worried looks.

"What, what is it?" Lydia asked hurriedly, pushing her way between Thora and I.

"Do we stop?" Officer Harkensen asked uncertainly. "Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine, no – please, proceed," I laughed, trying to wave off his concern as I passed Lydia the note. "Read the promotions," I urged gleefully.

Lydia snatched it and read; Vale turned back to the path with a frown.

Thora's wide, brown eyes flickered between Lydia and I curiously. "You are pleased by something?"

"Hah!" Lydia reached the relevant place, then passed the report to Thora in triumph. "Vilkas is going to _love_ this."

My smile doubled; it was telling that Lydia's mind had flown at once to _him_. "Yes, I'm sure he will," I suppressed my glee, and looked instead to Thora in apology. "We are both Companions, from Whiterun," I explained, nodding to her report as the soldier tucked it away. "Our shield-brother, Farkas, was just named honorary Auxiliary."

"Oh!" Thora's eyes widened; her open smile was back. "A deserved honour, though I understand your laughter now. For one of the great Companions of Jorrvaskr, such a title must mean little to you."

"No, you _entirely_ mistake me," I laughed fondly. "We are pleased for him. Farkas will appreciate the accolade. In his own way," I added with a considering tilt. He would probably wonder why he had receive it for simply doing what he had always done; protect others.

We continued on the age-worn road in better humour, passing the occasional pair of Legion officers as Thora had anticipated. Rather than halt our progress, the young officer would hang back to answer for our appearance while the rest of us pressed on. It was never long before she rejoined our group.

"I do hope word of my whereabouts doesn't spread _too_ quickly," I mused carefully as she returned from one such delay and slowed her horse to ride beside mine.

"Your secret is safe," Thora's cheeks pinked as she looked down and laughed at her hands rested on the pommel. "We are all aware of your part in the Battle for Whiterun, and the dragon attack outside Rorikstead. I spend most of my time convincing my comrades they needn't join your escort. You saved many lives then, and we will never forget it."

"Oh," I blinked; regarded her curiously. "Thank you," I returned haltingly, wondering what exactly was being circulated about my part in the war.

"It is the least I can do," Thora glanced up again, eyes sharp and watchful as she gazed across the mountains to our left. "Mayhap when the war ends-"

" _If_ it ends!" Vale called out over his shoulder pointedly.

Thora fixed her comrade's back with a flat expression. " _When_ the war ends, I've been thinking I might go to Whiterun, present myself to the Companions."

A knowing snort issued from the soldier at the head of our party, but I cut over him quickly. "I think that's a wonderful idea. I would be honoured to stand beside you as your shield-sibling."

"You _would_?" Thora near fell off her horse; her eyes widened as she regained her balance. "You see, Vale? Even our Lady Dragonborn thinks it's a sound idea."

"With respect, my Lady," the older officer ground through his teeth, "why did you tell her that? Now I will _never_ hear the end of it."

"You should come too," I offered with a laugh.

Officer Harkensen barked a humourless laugh. "No offence, but mercenary work's not for me, ma'am."

"The Companions are more than mercenaries," I advised. "Though I will readily admit that I thought as you do, before I got to know them," I flashed Lydia a knowing smile.

"How...?" Thora asked haltingly, with a discreet glance toward her elder. "How did you come to join the Companion, if you don't mind me asking?" she lowered her tone.

"I don't mind. And, I didn't at first," I rolled my eyes. "I did all in my power to avoid joining them, actually," I laughed, feeling more than seeing Lydia's eyes and Vale's ears turn toward me in interest. With a small smile, the bard I was dressed to be stepped forward. "Would...you like to hear the tale, while we journey?"

It was Thora's turn to laugh now, though it came out more like a splutter, as though she thought I was crazy for asking.

I took her wordless reaction as a _yes_ and mused over where to begin, and what I could safely relate. There were aspects I would need to gloss over and disguise to protect my shield-siblings, but it was a challenge I felt capable of meeting.

"I have Lydia to thank, for without her I might never have ventured into Jorrvaskr that night," I smiled gratefully at her. "She was once housecarl to my late father, and knew of my training with the Bard's college from his stories of his family. When the Jarl asked me to remain in Whiterun for a night, Lydia suggested I seek out Kodlak Whitemane for accommodation, in exchange for my services as a bard."

I related the initial misunderstanding; the subsequent performance, and Vilkas' ambush the next morning, where he had offered a contract in Jorrvaskr; an offer I had swiftly declined and escaped from. I explained that when I returned, freshly outed as Dragonborn and uncertain of what it meant for my future, Kodlak had welcomed me and we had entered into a new arrangement; they would teach me to defend myself, if I would continue performing songs and stories at night.

When I touched on their response to my music, I played down the effect. Instead of werewolves in search of a cure to their curse, I painted a picture of everything else that they were; everything they meant to me. Not mercenaries, but a team; a family. A business built on the foundations of those who wished to do for the community what others could not. I spoke of Kodlak and my shield-brothers as the men I felt they truly were within; men of intelligence, courage, and above all, kindness.

It was cathartic to speak of Kodlak after all this time, and while I missed him, his memory brought me more joy than pain. I was able to speak of his foresight, his open trust, and his startling intelligence without dragging myself down into grief. I spoke of Farkas' fierce sense of justice; his strength and ability to live in the now. When I related Vilkas' part in my story, I had to be more careful. I could mention nothing of our encounter with Skjor and Aela in the underforge, but that was the moment everything had changed between the Companions and I; when I had decided to stop existing in their lower ranks for my own purposes, and really _be_ one of them. Not even Lydia was aware of what had occurred that night, and I doubted Vilkas would tell her, either.

So, as many a bard before me, I changed my history with the Companions, to honour their deeds, but protect their deepest secret.

"As happens with many who try on the warrior's cap, it was not long before my bravado got me into trouble," I wove, glancing away as though recalling it brought me embarrassment, which gave me time to remember one of the many jobs my shield-siblings had undertaken.

" _I did it! I felled the bloody bear!"_

Ria's merry claim speared me straight to my chest. I closed my eyes, and made myself go on. "There was a bear," I told them, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "It had been terrorising the salmon farmers on Lake Ilinalta. And I wanted to prove my worthiness, my...usefulness. I assigned myself the job the moment it came in. I had been progressing with the bow, so I thought I'd climb a tree and fire upon it until the deed was done."

Lydia hissed a sharp breath but I couldn't look at her; she would see through my facade in an instant. "That shows how much I know about bears," I huffed ruefully. "I found the beast easily enough; it was robbing the fishermen's hut when I arrived. I climbed one of the bigger trees around the lake, just as I had planned. And the bloody thing _climbed up after me_.

"But the Gods were smiling on me that day, even as I tried my best to get myself killed. If Vilkas had not been returning from a job in Falkreath and heard us, I would have certainly been eaten," I flickered Thora a glance; she was wide-eyed and enraptured. I offered her a weak smile; I felt guilty for spinning such falsities, but it had its purpose. This was the story of how the Dragonborn became a Companion, not a step-by-step account of my actual past.

"Without hesitation, Vilkas ran to the base of the tree and _roared_ at the bear," I shuddered. "I gripped onto a branch for dear life as it fell – splinters of wood flew as it scratched bough after bough for purchase, each time unsuccessful – and it crashed to the ground with a mighty _thud_ , scrambled onto its four paws, and _bolted._ "

It was near enough to the truth.

"Vilkas was so angry with me that I had to..."

 _Sing him down_.

"Well," I changed my mind and shrugged. "I was confined to Whiterun and account book duty for a while after that," I surmised.

This earned me a surprised laugh from Thora and a _hmph_ from Vale.

When I chanced a glance at Lydia, she had her fist on her forehead and her eyes were shut. "You went after a _bear_ without telling anyone?"

"It was a long time ago," I offered meekly.

"Not _that_ long," she accused.

"And _this_ ," I motioned toward her reasonably, "is why I didn't tell you."

Lydia unclenched her fist and shook her head in disbelief. "I will be having _words_ with Vilkas-"

"-who saved me that day," I reminded pointedly. "And, knowing him, he will tell the story a little... _differently_."

"Oh," Lydia groaned; the sound suffused with a sudden deeper understanding. "Maybe I _don't_ want to know."

Thora laughed nervously, glancing between us. "I do not understand your distress, Lydia," she commented gently. "She is plainly alive before you and has a story to tell for it, even a lesson to teach others-"

"Yes, _yes_ exactly," I pointed to Thora as I squared Lydia. "Let's all listen to Thora."

"Me?" the soldier looked taken aback; her cheeks flushed as she lowered her eyes. "I would much rather listen to you, my Lady."

Lydia shot me an unimpressed but knowing look as she lifted her brows pointedly in Thora's direction. _What are you doing,_ her eyes asked.

"That's very kind of you," I offered gently, wishing I could remind Lydia it was a bard's _job_ to make others want to listen to them. "And if my housecarl has no further comments, I shall continue?"

Lydia rolled her eyes, betraying a smirk. "When have my reactions _ever_ stopped you?"

I proceeded. The story of my time with the Companions knit together and wound between actual events, plucking at what worked and ignoring what didn't.

By the time I brought the story to a close the sun had dipped behind the mountains to our left. And the winding tale I had formed while we rode? I finished it when I reached Kodlak and Ria's funeral; it was now a story honouring their significance, not one designed to further the Dragonborn's glory.

There were still hours before us until night truly fell, but when we were near enough to the White river to hear it, Vale stopped and insisted we find a safe shelter for the night, before it grew too cold.

"Unless you want to risk crossing the White at night," he added in a scoff, as though we would be crazy to consider it.

Lydia nodded. "I intend on using the cover of night to cross the river," she insisted, flicking me a glance. "I want to be out of Eastmarch before dawn."

"That's right," I supported hastily. "We can't afford any loss of time."

Vale turned his mount around and fixed me with a puzzled look. "Your business in Winterhold is so urgent that you would put your lives at risk?"

"Yes," I replied.

"No," Lydia shot me another look, her brows crossed, before she turned back to the officer. "There is no risk if we do this right. The longer we remain in Eastmarch, the more likely it is that we'll be found by Stormcloak's soldiers."

Officer Harkensen sighed in what seemed like defeat. "What roads do you intend to take, once you're across?"

"Here," Lydia grabbed a map folded over her belt. "I'll show you," she directed her horse to the front of the group.

Vale unstrapped a torch from his saddle and lit it to give more light to their task.

"There are more Stormcloaks in Winterhold than Eastmarch," Vale told her as Lydia unfolded the map. "You'd be better off avoiding the main pass entirely and forging a route along the glacial walls," he pointed.

Lydia snorted. "Swimming in sea ice and dodging horkers and bears?"

"Better horkers than Stormcloaks," he replied dryly. "Horkers are easy," he shifted in the saddle, sitting back to consider. "You stay out of their territory, they leave you be. Bloody _Stormcloaks_ chase you, even if you're minding your own business," he grumbled. "And your lass already knows how to take down a bear," he pointed to me. "Scream at it until it runs away, wasn't it?"

My cheeks flushed; I cleared my throat and faced Thora, who had shifted her horse to stand beside mine again.

She offered me a small smile. "I suppose this is good bye, Lady Dragonborn," she murmured.

"Not forever," I returned. "I will see you in the mead hall someday, remember?"

"Ah. Right," again she turned her eyes down, laughing gently.

"And – should you see Hadvar? Could you...?" I asked haltingly, wincing at my awkwardness. _Could she what?_

"Tell him I miss him?" I settled in a rush.

She nodded once and gave me a knowing smile; all teeth. "Your Hadvar is a lucky man, my Lady. If you don't mind me saying so," she added hurriedly.

Smiling sadly, I shook my head. "No, it is I who am lucky," I replied with a sigh toward the shadowy mountains, lined in gold. "He is a true hero," I owned quietly. "He stands up because it is the right thing to do. He could have chosen to save anyone that day in Helgen – but – for some reason – he chose me," I was baffled. "He is everything to me."

In the corner of my eye, Thora's smile relaxed. "That's funny," she mused, a hint of laughter in her tone.

My brows knit together as I turned to her with questions in my eyes.

"He said the same thing, when he talked of you," she smiled encouragingly.

–

At the mouth of the White river we bade Vale and Thora farewell and left Misty and Lydia's horse with our Imperial escort, as the road ahead would be too perilous for our mounts. They had promised to return the horses to Whiterun to await our return.

We had taken Vale's advice and made our way north on foot along a sea pass that hugged the sheer cliffs and glacial walls to avoid the Stormcloak patrols the Imperial soldier had been certain we would encounter at every turn.

Wordlessly, I followed in Lydia's footsteps, taken in by the serenity of our surrounds, and quietly thanked Officer Harkensen for his suggestion. A perfect silence was broken only by the rhythmic ebb and flow of the sea, glittering with luminescence, reflecting the pink and green aurorae and brightest of stars as it beached and foamed gently against the pebbled shore then receded to repeat its mantra. The ice cliffs and bergs bathed in the twin sheen of Masser and Secunda, towering colossal heights and sparkling like enormous jewels, perfect and pure.

Despite Vale's insistence that Winterhold was enemy territory and we would certainly be caught, I could not help but be moved by the beauty of the northern Hold. Instead of fearing the north, I felt honoured to be able to experience this deserted corner of Skyrim for myself.

The moons eventually set, and the skies shifted from indigo to grey so gradually that it was impossible to pinpoint when the change occurred. Dawn slipped into day, and as the sun's rays pierced the horizon the world shifted again, from blues and silvers to pinks and golds.

"I wish I could paint what I am seeing. It is a true beauty to..." Lydia stopped; squinted, holding her hand up to her brow to shield her eyes from the new day's light. "Is...that a shipwreck?"

I glanced out to sea. Islands of rock and ice littered the shore, but silhouetted beyond was what _could_ have passed for a ship's mast. "It might be," I shushed, turning back and side-stepping my immobile housecarl. My boots squeaked another footstep through the softly-packed snow and crunched against the pebbled beach below. "Mark it on the map, for later," I suggested. "We're a bit busy today."

With a sigh, Lydia trudged after me; her footfalls louder and faster as she caught up. A hesitation hung between us, thick like the morning mists, until eventually, her hand entered my line of sight, clasped around a stamina potion.

I glanced to her with a frown, and she smiled supportively, reaffirming her offering.

 _Why not? You have been walking through the night carrying a heavy pack and lute._

It was only after I took it and sipped at the contents that Lydia broke the silence.

"I know, little one; you want this...strangeness to end. But if joining the Companions has taught me anything," she placed her hands on her hips; glanced down to the ground. "It's that we must try to live for the moment, too."

My eyes swivelled to her in curiosity and I took another sip.

"I mean," she was wincing now. "Better to live today, than to focus on a future that might never be. You – we are only here," she emphasised, "because we explored. Took chances. Improvised," her mouth curled into a half-smile.

"Sound advice," I murmured with a nod, though continued to eye her skeptically. "...thank the Gods you and Vilkas aren't still wasting time dancing around each another."

Rolling her eyes, Lydia turned toward the sheer glacial cliffs that dominated the west and started moving again. "That's different," she hushed pensively.

"How?" I asked gently. "I know you're both afraid," I owned. "But – as you said – what if there is no tomorrow? What good will your valour, or caution, or whatever you're calling it today, be then?"

"I wasn't talking about Vilkas," Lydia evaded with a huff; retrieved a stamina potion for herself.

"Yes you were," I prompted quickly with a little laugh as I tucked my now-empty bottle into my pack. "How is love exempt from your logic?"

"Because-" Lydia slammed her eyes closed; bit her bottom lip in restraint, and I curiously wondered how close I was to a telling off. "It's...private."

I reached out; placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sorry," I murmured. "I'm interested because...I want it to work out between you," I let my hand fall. "I miss Hadvar," I admitted. I looked past her to our path. It grew more insubstantial the further I looked into the mists ahead. "I miss him every second of every day. When I see two of my favourite people falling in love I just-" I shrugged helplessly. "I want you to have what I can't."

Lydia made a soft sound of dissatisfaction. "I wish he could be here with you, instead of me. In a perfect Nirn, Hadvar would be accompanying you to Winterhold and I would be hunting down your sister with Vilkas."

"No, I'm glad you're here," I said quietly to the snow.

"But -" Lydia added haltingly. "I must make myself plain. You can't...live your relationship vicariously through...mine," she hazarded. "I'm sorry. But – we are different people. I will not rush into this, for anybody, even you," she laughed, pushing at my shoulder.

"I _still_ don't understand you," I sidestepped, rubbing my arm in the wake of her shove. "What happened to, 'when you find love, you must seize it'? Does the same not apply to you – or was that all talk?"

Lydia burst out laughing. "I'm not sure how to respond to that," she admitted.

"Then don't," I gave her an out, laughing with her – because she was right. As delightful as I found the prospect of my shield-brother and housecarl together, it _was_ none of my business. "Just...think about it. I want you to be happy."

"I _am_ happy."

"Happi _er_ , then."

With an exasperated glance to the now bluer skies, Lydia shook her head. "I can't even remember the point I was trying to make."

"Something about a shipwreck?" I lifted my eyebrows at her. "Do you really think we should check it out?"

Lydia shook her head and a soft smile graced her lips. "Perhaps not. Not today, at least. We have a long way to go."

"Do you think we'll reach Winterhold by nightfall?" I queried; Lydia was in charge of tracking our progress, and I did not fancy another night of walking spurred on by stamina potions.

She untucked her folded map from her belt; peered at it. For a few moments she glanced between the shoreline, and the document. "Crossed the mouth at seven, and..." she glanced up, "it's about that now. Twelve hours, give or take," she murmured, considering, then her voice rose. "We're half way along the coast, I think. If we can keep this pace up, we'll arrive just after sunset."

"Good," I stretched my neck, my arms. "First order of business will be a warm bath."

"I'll second that," Lydia closed her eyes, imagining wistfully. "Bath, beer, bed."

"Now you _really_ sound like a Companion," I scoffed.

Lydia opened her eyes and gave me a quick wink. "Honoured to be acknowledged, Harbinger."

"Ugh," I rolled my eyes. "Not you too."

With a good-humoured laugh and a hand on my shoulder, Lydia stepped past and took the lead.

–

It was full night by the time we ascended the fragile path leading from the coast to the tiny village of Winterhold. We had been delayed circumnavigating several horker families territories, avoiding any and all engagements. The night was cold and damp, and an aggressive wind pushed us to and fro, relentlessly tugging at our strappy bard garments.

By the time Lydia and I crashed through the door of the local inn, aptly named the Frozen Hearth, we were a bit of a windswept mess, and I had to wonder how our warpaint fared; I could feel it peeling on my cheekbones. The air in the tap room felt dense and warm, and the small space was full to the brim with night-time revellers made shades of orange from the glow of the enormous central hearth.

Our entrance was barely noticed over the din of conversation and music. Lydia raised a hand to keep me from stepping into the throng, standing tall and alert as she scanned the room with her expert-eye.

I did the same, more curious at the amount of people crammed into this small space than anything else. I had expected a dreary, empty pub to rival the Moorside, not the merry scene before me. I tried to clamp down on a surge of panic as my eyes flit about and understood _why_ the tavern was so busy.

It was about half full of Stormcloak soldiers, all who seemed to be well into their cups; red cheeked and laughing, stumbling – a few were asleep at their tables. The easily-recognisable cuirass dominated the back half of the room closest to the bar, where they stood, perched and sat in clusters of wedge-shaped blue-clad muscle. I couldn't stop myself from shrinking into the shadow of my housecarl as I turned my eyes toward the bar's remaining occupants.

Students of the College – or they had to be, given their youth and range of ethnicities – there was perhaps one Nord among them – though none wore mage's robes. They wore fine, expensive cloths, plush furs and polished leathers, and while enjoying themselves, seemed neat and cultured. Some sat, chatting over goblets and open books and others were dancing, twirling and laughing in front of the resident bard; a gorgeous Nord woman with glossy amber hair piled in a curly bun, smiling over the top of her flute as she trilled a vibrant jig. She did not look to be in want of money either; the white fur and leather, dyed sky-blue, fit her so precisely that it must have been tailored, and she wore a tasteful array of jewels around her brow, wrists, ankles and throat.

I lifted my eyebrows at the unexpected opulence; I doubted a single person on this side of the room would see any reason to exchange money for answers.

Lydia lowered her hand carefully and nodded toward the students. "Go, stand by them," she murmured through the side of her mouth. "I'll secure a room."

Without waiting for confirmation, my housecarl glided toward the bar.

Nodding to steel myself, I took a step forward; fidgeted with my lute strap and straightened my tunic. My eyes drifted to the nearest student; a tall, lithe, well-dressed Dunmer girl. Her dark hair twisted around her head like a crown; the tails wound around her shoulder in an elegant braid. The purple and gold of her clothing and ear-cuffs set off the vibrant, garnet-red colour of her eyes.

I must have made a sound, for the mer suddenly looked at me – expressionless as her eyes flickered over me – and then one slim eyebrow arched.

I turned and made for the nearest table, flushing furiously. I no more fit in with these students than I did the Stormcloaks at the other end of the bar, dressed as I was. My clothing was dishevelled, my warpaint flaking, and I did not want to even _think_ about what the fierce winds had done to my hair.

 _Giselle would have loved it here,_ was my first thought as I sat at a bench and stared at the wood grain of the table top, then my open palms. They were dry-chapped with small cuts and grazes marring the surface.

With shaking hands, I began to unwind my hair, praying that Lydia would return swiftly, and that a bath would not take _too_ long to prepare. If I wanted to earn anyone's trust – enough for them to divulge secrets – I would have to present myself appropriately. Weathered warrior-bard would not do.

The table I had sat at was nearest the door and occupied by a pair of students sat perpendicular to one another with wine goblets in hand. They hadn't noticed me, so I listened, ears perked in interest as I detangled one of the small plaits and stared at nothing.

"You still blame J'zargo! You know that was not supposed to happen-" the small Khajiit male was saying.

"What, that _it would blow up_?" his comrade, a taller, muscled Nord with a shock of black hair laughed; his entire face lit up when he did.

" - Talara's theorem speculates the existence of destruction-level resources in _all_ forms," the Khajiit persisted; his golden earcuffs dancing as he shook his head. "The spell was designed to focus on those pockets of untapped potential. J'zargo was not to know _you_ would be the only human who failed to conform-"

"So it's now my fault your spell exploded?" the Nord's glee doubled and he clapped a hand on the Khajiit's shoulder. "J'zargo, you do remember I once _majored_ in destruction?"

J'zargo hissed. "And that makes you an expert, does it Onmund?" he jabbed his tankard forward. "Explain to J'zargo, then, where the spell failed if you did not."

"I'm not saying the _spell_ failed either," the Nord, Onmund, sat back, chuckling as he glanced into his goblet. "You just really suck at destruction."

"Traitor!" J'zargo's pointed teeth showed as he grinned. "Alteration has addled your mind," he waggled a paw at the Nord.

I suppressed my smile; such talk amongst mere colleagues might have ended in blows, so these two must have been old friends. As my fingers worked my hair, I recalled teasing arguments of a similar nature that I'd had with my friends from the Bard's college.

 _A long, long time ago._

"Your lack of faith in J'zargo makes me only more determined to conquer you," he finished.

"I'm not competing with you," Onmund groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Faralda chucked me out of the elective," he gave his friend a shove on the shoulder.

The Khajiit's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That was all part of your... _plan_."

Onmund snorted, but was cut off before he could speak by a newcomer.

"Darling, won't you dance with me before curfew?"

It was a Breton girl; cheeks pinked with exertion, honey-coloured hair loose and feathering her shoulders, with one slim hand extended toward the J'zargo.

"Since when has _curfew_ ever stopped you, Evae," Onmund jibed.

The Breton shot Onmund a baleful glare. "Since when have you ever cared what I do with my time, Onmund?"

"Evae?" J'zargo frowned at her, blinking blearily. "Why are we to dance?"

"You owe me, remember?" she widened her eyes; a brief annoyance flashed through her warm green eyes. "For the essay...?"

"Oh really?" Onmund, suddenly grinning, rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.

"All right, Evae," J'zargo chuckled nervously. "If you want to dance, you don't need to-" he stood hastily.

Onmund wasn't deterred. "Which essay would that be?" he cut in.

"That is enough out of you," J'zargo glared as he took Evae's hand with a large paw. "Drunk bastard," he murmured as Evae towed him toward the bard and other dancers.

Onmund's eyes followed the pair, then he turned on the bench seat to face the room; his expression relaxed as he grinned and waved at his friend. "Don't let me forget it," he murmured, to himself it seemed.

I turned as well, searching for Lydia. She was by the bar, and as though my notice had summoned hers, her eyes found mine. She motioned subtly, eyes flickering toward the doors to my left.

Understanding, I stood and made my way toward the left side of the inn.

Or I would have, had a hand not landed on my arm.

"Hey – I mean. Wait," he spoke. "Please," a hasty addition.

I tried to smother a startle and looked down to the large, pale hand on my arm – then up, to take in the surprised, icy-blue eyes of the Onmund I had been eavesdropping on.

"Excuse me," I dipped my head; shrugged his hand off.

He let go at once. "My apologies. I was mistaken," he sat back haltingly. His smile was gone; the animation he'd so freely exhibited earlier replaced by a flat, expressionless mask.

I tried to remain unruffled as I moved away as quickly as I dared to the door Lydia was standing beside, but it was difficult to ignore the change in the Nord mage – or at least, what it implied.

What were we going to do now?

My housecarl's eyes flickered to the table where Onmund sat, then back to me. "Trouble?" she murmured, placing a consoling hand on my shoulder.

"I'm not sure," I glanced to the door so she would open it.

Lydia feigned disinterest as she unlocked it with a flick of her wrist and guided me within.

"What aren't you sure about?" she locked it behind us.

The room was larger than I had expected and contained two double beds – deep mahogany furniture and cloth in warm, creamy shades and a square table by the shuttered window, lit up by a cluster of lanterns and decorated with an artfully hammered bowl of jazbay grapes, several pewter goblets and a shallow vase of Dragon's Tongue, Nightshade, and purple mountain blooms.

"What's going on in Winterhold?" I murmured, taken back by the quality of the guest room, not to mention the freshness of the flowers.

"Celeste?" Lydia prompted. "What happened out there with that boy?"

I faced her; the wealth of Winterhold wasn't the matter at hand, and I acknowledged what must have been true; "I think that student recognised me – or, her."

"How?" Lydia crossed her arms, genuinely confused. "Your sister didn't-"

"I know," I cut her off, shrugging helplessly.

Lydia's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What did he say, exactly?"

"Not much, but..." I frowned at the polished floor, trying to remember in case it offered any hints. "Just that he was...mistaken."

Lydia exhaled sharply. "No he wasn't. I saw the _look_ he gave you."

"What _look_?" I shuddered, closing my eyes in regret. "That was a face devoid of _look._ "

"Not while you had eyes on him, no."

"All I can assume is that Giselle _did_ spend some time up here," I cursed.

"No," Lydia murmured slowly, shaking her head just as slowly. "No, if she had attended the College, you would have been recognised sooner."

"Not unless they looked beyond the disguise," I reminded her carefully; Giselle would never have let anyone see her like _this_. "And, that mage...Onmund," I managed. "If he had truly been mistaken, he would have offered a smile or frown, or _something_. She must have hurt him somehow."

"That sounds like Giselle," Lydia considered in a droll voice, then shook her head and moved further into the room. "Okay. One boy does not concern us; nobody else took any notice of you. We proceed as planned," she offloaded her pack. "Speaking of which...what...is the plan?" she added.

"I don't know any more," I admitted truthfully, eyes pleading. "What if...what Delphine told us wasn't true? What if she _did_ attend here?"

"Then _I'll_ go into the College and ask your questions, and you'll remain here," she assured swiftly with a smile of encouragement. "Peace, little one. We will get what we came for, one way or another."

"I hope so."

While I sat and removed my boots, I wondered over why Onmund, and all of Winterhold for that matter, had thrown me. I had been wearing the risk of being recognised like a thick cloak for this entire journey; it had been inevitable that eventually, someone would see through the guise and warpaint.

At least it hadn't been a Stormcloak. At least Onmund hadn't questioned me, or made a scene.

But that begged the question; how _did_ Giselle know anyone from the college she had never attended?

While my housecarl and I remained in the room for the evening, we were not left alone. The first knock came only minutes after we had entered, and the publican's wife was admitted. The tall, slim woman oversaw a team of inn workers as they carried in two baths and water Lydia had asked for.

Once they had set down the tubs and the buckets had been emptied, she backed toward the door, giving Lydia a warm, understanding smile. "Summon me, should you or your daughter require anything, Lady Belamy," she dipped her head.

"Thank you," Lydia leaned over a bath; her hand drifted through the water idly, testing its temperature. "We should like a meal, and your finest red, in about an hour, if your kitchens are still open."

"Of course," with another bow, the publican's wife closed the door behind her.

I glanced from Lydia to the door, then back to Lydia again; my stomach tied itself in knots. _Daughter_? "Lady Belamy?" I managed, letting out a large lungful of air.

Lydia shrugged, lifting her eyes to meet mine as she smiled. "My mother's name," she explained calmly. "I had to give them something."

The merest touch of warm water seemed to have relaxed my housecarl considerably, and I let myself laugh at the change in her as I strode to the door and locked it. "Did they question you about our business?" I asked. "What else did you tell them?" I turned back and leant against the carved wood.

With a secretive smile, Lydia rose, dispensing with formality as she began to shed her layers. "I told them a story, as a bard might, littered with just enough intrigue and septims to make us desirable customers," she placed her costume, then armour, over the back of a chair. "While we're residents of the inn and in the company of others, you'll need to call me mother. Sorry about that," she motioned toward the other tub as, disrobed, she stepped into hers. "You should bathe while the water is hot."

"As you wish, mother," I smirked, drifting to the steaming tub that didn't contain my housecarl. "What did you say my name was?" I enquired, wondering just how elaborate our backstory was.

"I didn't," Lydia admitted. She worked at her hair; pins tinkled musically against the floorboards. "What do you wish to be called?"

"Well, if I am your daughter, then it must be Lucia," I smiled as I turned my back and began to disrobe.

"Lucia Belamy. Very pretty," I could hear the smile in Lydia's tone. "I wonder how she is?" she pondered.

"Lucia?" I confirmed.

"Mm."

I faltered at the briefness of her reply. "I...wonder if she's practised the songs I taught her?" I continued undressing.

Lydia laughed, but sounded a little sad. "Oh, I had forgotten about that. I wonder if the lute is still in _tune_?"

"I taught her how to tune it," I defended over my shoulder before I stepped into the bath with a shudder, then ducked down. It was _scalding_ , but I had been so devoid of warmth for so long that I endured it even while the hot water found the nicks and grazes peppering my skin that I hadn't noticed until now. The worst would be over soon, and it would be worth it, to be clean.

"For Sigrid's sake," Lydia sighed, settling deeper into the hot water and closing her eyes, "I hope she remembered _that_ lesson."

Once we had wiped the remains of our warpaint off with oil and were both clean, dry, and dressed, the food arrived, and once the publican's wife had left for a second time, Lydia and I sat at the table and considered how we might locate someone who knew anything about Elder Scrolls, without attracting _too_ much attention.

"You could present yourself to the College as a prospective student?" Lydia suggested. "We both could."

I shook my head in regret. "It's mid-term. They don't accept just anyone from the streets; they'll want us to prove we can cast a spell," I frowned, recalling the entry exams and interviews Giselle had been required to pass in Solitude, before she had been considered for enrolment.

 _Why did she bother going through all of that if she didn't intend on coming here?_

"I don't suppose we can just request a meeting with the Arch-Mage?" I proposed.

"Under what pretence?" Lydia arched an eyebrow at her plate and speared a few mushrooms.

"We can ask about my sister?" I shrugged.

My housecarl raised her eyes; stared at me for a moment, and blinked slowly. "We spend all this time hiding and coming up with disguises," she posed delicately, "and you want to tell them who you are the moment we arrive?"

"Okay, not the best idea I've ever had," I rolled my eyes. "Could Lady Belamy request an audience and line the Arch-Mage's palm with gold? Perhaps," I sat forward a little, lifting my eyebrows as my mind ran away with the possibilities. "You said intrigue, right? What if you and I are in love and escaping our marriages to be together? We could ask for an Alteration spell that would last for the duration of a crossing to..." I waved my hand in the air. "Solstheim. I don't know. Anywhere but here, where we can make a new life for ourselves."

"That will lead us to information about Elder Scrolls, how?" Lydia burst out laughing and shook her head. "And not after I told the innkeeper you are my daughter. Besides, I am _far_ too old for you."

"Age is irrelevant when love strikes," I jibed. "But – all right. That's a 'no' to eloping."

"Though I do like the idea to request Alteration magic. That would explain why we were disguised when we arrived here," Lydia sat back, tapping her fork to her lips for a moment. "Though we would still need to find some reason to ask about Elder Scrolls..."

Her eyes flashed to me suddenly. "Okay. The first thing we need to determine is whether or not your sister is known around the college. That will decide for us who approaches the Arch-Mage with – the _particulars_ of our request."

"How do we do that?" I laughed nervously.

Her eyes flickered to the door. "That boy who recognised you..." she glanced back to me and lifted her eyebrows.

My shoulders sank as I understood what she was coming to. "You don't seriously want me to go and question him?"

"What?" Lydia's eyes widened, horrified. "No! Nothing like that!" she held out her hands; tried not to laugh.

"Thank the Gods," I let out a sigh of relief.

"I'll go get him. We can talk to him in private."

" _What_?"

"I'm not going to leave you alone out there after the look he sent your way," Lydia gave me a sideways glance. "And if he means to cause us trouble, I can deal with him-"

"WHAT?" I spluttered, rising to my feet.

"Not like _that_ ," Lydia shot me an unimpressed look, then stood and made for the door. "Sit down and – give me a minute."

"Lydia!" I hissed urgently.

Her hand landed on the handle and she glanced over her shoulder before she turned the key. _Mother_ , she mouthed – and then she was gone.

Exasperated, I flopped into my seat and pushed my half-eaten dinner away. _Great. Another conversation with another person my sister has a history with._

This wouldn't be frustrating or dangerous at all. Leaning my head against the back of the chair, I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself. Had I not insisted that Lydia and Vilkas let go of their emotions to obtain what we needed? I had to do the same.

 _Lydia's right_ , I reasoned, once I could see past my panicked little thoughts. _You need to figure out if it's just him, or if everybody at the College will recognise you._

It was not long before the door opened to re-admit Lydia – and an uncomfortable-looking Onmund.

"You're back," I said uselessly, standing for no reason as I wrung my hands in front of me.

"We're back," Lydia echoed as she ushered the student inside and locked the door behind them. "You see?" she said in a quiet tone, lifting her eyebrows to the mage. "She is _not_ Giselle Passero."

"I _know_ she's not," Onmund muttered, casting me a quick look – and immediately did a double-take. His eyes widened, flickering over me in recognition and something more – a deeper-seated agony that had the nerve to make me feel _guilty_ for my sister's deeds _._

He was seeing me without warpaint or mad hair; I would have looked more like Giselle in that moment than before, though I deplored the notion that my very _presence_ made him respond in this way. "Um," I flickered Lydia an uneasy look. "Thank you for coming?" I hazarded.

"Yeah. Sorry, about before...Celeste," he seemed disappointed in himself.

"Oh," I blinked in surprise. "You know my name?"

"Of course. But, I never..." he hesitated, then lowered his eyes, his brows knitting in frustration. "Just – give me a moment, okay?"

I glanced to Lydia and frowned. What had she told him to make him agree to this audience so swiftly? He certainly didn't seem to _want_ to be here.

My housecarl glided into the room and sat on the edge of her bed. "Take a seat," she suggested with a hint of amusement, motioning toward the table.

Onmund nodded, but took a moment longer to collect himself before he shifted further into the room.

 _What is **he** worried about?_

He reached the chair opposite mine and sat; his eyes fixed on the table centrepieces.

"Can't you just tell me where she _is_?" he asked the flowers quietly, somewhat hopelessly. "It's been months and...I haven't..." he drifted off.

Oh. _Oh_ , I recognised that look; that particular breed of agony. I had felt it keenly when Hadvar had gone missing after the incident in the Pale.

 _ **That's**_ _how Lydia got him to agree to this._

"A colleague is in the process of extracting her," I cut in smoothly.

Finally, he looked at me, eyes wider, practically begging as he leaned forward. The lantern light caught his features and made his buttons and jewellery flash briefly. "From where?" he asked, his voice thicker than before. "Can't I go to her?"

 _Lydia_ , I cursed. "Her location is classified," I studied him; tried to paint a picture of who they were to one another. Did my sister have lovers in _every_ Hold in Skyrim?

Squeezing his eyes closed in regret, he leaned back, then stared at the ceiling. "Stormcloak _will not_ take her back, and if the reports from Solitude are correct, she is in _terrible_ danger."

Again the lights shifted across him and I caught another glimmer of jewellery – a piece I should have paid more attention to earlier. My heart skipped a beat; I _recognised_ it.

Now _my_ eyes widened as I leaned forward, grabbing the object around his neck. "Where did you get this?" I spluttered.

He startled; his hands flew to the chain but I stood to get a closer look, peering at it to be _certain_ it was my _mother's_ ring. The ring she had left Giselle in her will.

"Where do you think?" he asked quietly.

" _Giselle_ gave this to you?" I squeaked. "She's been in bed with Ulfric Stormcloak going on three years and she gave _you_ our mother's ring?!" I accused.

"Lucia!" Lydia warned in a firm voice, clearing her throat.

"Don't _remind me_ -" he yanked the chain out of my grasp; stared down at the ring with a frown. "She does what she must. I will never blame her for her nightmares, or forgive myself for all she has endured-"

"What?!" none of this was making sense. Taking a step back – staring at him in incredulity – I shook my head in horror. "Who _are_ you?"

When Onmund scowled at me from under thick, lowered brows, I saw something in him that I recognised but couldn't place, and my heart hammered a little faster. _Who are you, really?_

Instead of answering, he stood; the scowl persisted as his eyes judged me for a moment longer, then he faced Lydia. "You don't know where she is at all. Why did you ask me here?"

"We _will_ have her, and soon," Lydia insisted calmly.

"Are you going to give her up to the Legion, or the Thalmor?" he spat.

"Not if she cooperates," Lydia assured, then frowned at him crossly. "You cannot blame anyone, least of all Celeste, for being wary of her."

Onmund's eyes were on me again, flashing with fury. "You are her _sister_. If you _loved_ her, you would know-"

"Don't _dare_ to presume you know _anything_ about my relationship with my sister," I cut him off with a bleak laugh. "In the past months, she has tried to trap my fiancee, hunted and lied to me – for a time I truly believed she was trying to kill me-"

"She wasn't trying to _kill_ you-"

"Who's trying to kill who is irrelevant today," Lydia cut in, loud and clear.

Both Onmund and I glanced to her; the air crackled with unspent accusation between us.

Lydia's emerald eyes carried a different type of accusation; her mouth formed an unimpressed line. Eventually her eyes settled on Onmund. "We need information. If you help us to obtain it, we will relate Giselle's location, which will be in neither Legion nor Thalmor territory, to you by the end of the week."

"Or Stormcloak?" he asked, swallowing nervously.

"Or Stormcloak," Lydia confirmed.

She said it with such conviction that I managed to not feel embarrassed. We weren't exactly lying to him – because we _did_ intend on capturing Giselle and spiriting her away, even if my motive for doing so was foggy. We could, feasibly, bring Onmund with us when we left to meet Vilkas.

"And if this week passes, and your intelligence doesn't arrive?" he flickered me an uneasy glance.

Lydia squared him with a flat expression. "Then you come with us when we leave. Our contact tells you all he discovered, and you can follow her trail yourself."

"Perhaps it is time," Onmund looked miserable as he closed his eyes and nodded regretfully, as though he was betraying himself – or _her –_ by agreeing to work with us. "All right. Tell me what you need."

I relaxed into my chair. "Access to the College."

He lowered himself into his seat slowly; his brows furrowed. "But...why?"

"Classified," I repeated.

Onmund huffed a humourless laugh. "You want me to trust you, but won't tell me why you are here?"

"That's right," I intoned, perhaps a little childishly. "Also – will I be recognised if anyone sees me there?"

"No, of course not," he waved his hand dismissively.

I waited for him to elaborate, but his eyes grew distant and sad. A little of the fire surging through my veins extinguished. Whatever my sister's feelings toward Onmund, it was plainly obvious he was in love with her. And...well. The evidence was clear; she had given him mother's ring, just as I had given Hadvar father's. Perhaps...he _did_ mean something to her. Something more than Stormcloak did.

"How can you be sure?" Lydia asked cautiously.

"Because...I took the place that would have been hers," he laughed bleakly. "She...insisted upon it," he added through his teeth. "And there is no stopping her, once an idea has entered her head."

"Tell me about it," I muttered. My curiosity was at tipping point, but somehow I managed to focus on what was here to obtain. Giselle's history was clearly _much_ more complicated than I or even Delphine knew, and it wasn't as though Onmund was about to regale us with their backstory.

"Okay," I glanced to Lydia; she nodded grimly; I turned back to the mage. "That settles _that_. Can you take me to the Arch-Mage?"

Onmund shrugged. "When?"

"Now?"

" _Now_?!"

" _Not_ now," Lydia's voice rose and she narrowed her eyes at me. "You have been running on potions and half-eaten meals for nearly two days."

"Then a few more hours won't make a difference," I pointed out.

"Doesn't matter," Onmund scrunched his nose. "Arch-Mage won't see anyone outside of office hours."

I lifted a hand to my head; rubbed at my temple. "Not even for the sake of Skyrim?" I murmured dryly.

"I doubt it," he replied with a shake to his head. "We're sort of...cut off from what's happening down on the plains," he sighed loftily. "And there's no guarantee _Savos Aren_ will have access to the magic you seek, he hasn't practised for years. This is a research and retirement gig for him."

"I'm not after a spell," I admitted with a sigh.

He opened his mouth – hesitated, then seemed to reconsider. "If...you could tell me what you _are_ here for, I might be able to suggest a faculty member who can assist you."

I thought quickly and made a show of relenting; my shoulders slumped. "A book."

"A very... _specific_ book," Lydia added carefully.

"What's it called?"

"I honestly can't tell you," I squared him.

He nodded and considered the fruit bowl, though the icy-blue was more distantly focussed. "I suppose that's as good as I'm going to get for now. If it's a rare book, you want to talk to Gro-Shub. Arcanaeum hours are six to ten, then two to eleven," he sighed wearily. "We'll have to leave soon, if you want to be there when he opens it."

"Why?" I sat back; crossed my arms. "It's the dead of night. How do you propose to get me into the College?"

"That won't be a problem," he waved his had again and even cracked a small, secretive smile. "I'm an Alteration major."

"But you said I wouldn't be recognised?" I frowned. "Why-?"

"They're not going to let a _stranger_ wander into the College," he half-laughed. "Some of those your saw in the pub tonight will _not_ make it back by curfew."

I recalled the Evae who'd led J'zargo away mentioning curfew, though didn't understand why this was so funny. "Why not?"

Onmund rolled his eyes. "Because they can't keep track of time," he shook the thought off and refocussed. "I'll make you look like one of them so we can get you in tonight, and you can go to the Arcanaeum at first light, before anyone down in the village slinks back," he tilted his head critically. "Do you have any nicer clothes?"

I tried not to bristle; it had been a long day and I was dressed in what was comfortable.

"I mean – I can get you mage's robes, once we're in-" he offered.

"I have other clothes," I fired.

The look he sent me was one of surprise, but he swiftly recovered and uttered a small laugh. "Sorry. You just... _vividly_ reminded me of Giselle," Onmund stood, smiling as he closed his eyes. "It's a balm to my _soul_ to think I might hold her in my arms by week's end."

"Great," I drawled, and stood as well. "Are we doing this?"

Onmund nodded, then stepped before me and lifted his hand. "Close your eyes. This might...sting a bit."

* * *

 _A/n: A sincere thank you to all who are sticking with me for this journey - your support and comments really help, and I'm sorry that r/l and work keeps sapping my momentum._


	58. In Her Place

_Chapter 58: In Her Place_

"Are you certain I cannot be the one to go?" Lydia whispered, casting a hasty glance in Onmund's direction to confirm the mage wasn't listening in on our hushed conversion.

I looked over my shoulder to observe him as well. If he was paying attention, he was doing a good job of hiding it, but I supposed that in being part of Giselle's web of confusion, he had grown used to hiding things.

After he had used a spell to make me look like one of his colleagues – the tall, elegant Dunmer girl I had seen earlier in the bar – he turned to give me some privacy while I changed my clothes. Since entering our room the easy, laughing student had morphed into a picture of tension, and time had not eased him. He stood rigid even now with his back to us, his hands on his hips and his eyes turned up, in silent conference with the ceiling.

I averted my temporarily garnet-red eyes and shrugged the long waistcoat over my shoulders. On my new body it settled just over hip-height, and I frowned at the less-fancy leggings and lanky feet poking out beneath it. My clothes were too small for this body.

"You needn't worry," I reminded Lydia. "I'm not going into battle; I'm going to a library to talk to a scholar."

"Yes, but-" Lydia clenched her teeth and glanced away, grinding out a small noise of discontent. "I wish Vilkas was here," she spat.

"Why?" I scrunched my nose as I fiddled with the ribbons, trying to weave and knot the front of the bodice together with fingers too long to control. "He could no more change my mind than you-"

"No, I mean," Lydia's frustration ebbed, and she motioned toward the ties. "Want some help?"

With a sigh of defeat, I let her take over.

Eyes fixed on the waistcoat and hands busy, she picked up where we had left off. "If Vilkas were here, he could – _you_ know. _Figure out_ whether we can trust him;" her last was sullen, and almost soundless.

"We can," I sucked in a breath as she gave a swift tug; shifted my feet to compensate and lowered my head to speak closer to her. "We have something he wants."

Lydia flickered me a guarded glance and shook her head. "Not yet we don't," left the corner of her mouth.

"But we _will_."

"You know what Giselle is capable of," she gave another sharp pull; her frown coloured her voice. "Backing her into a corner is a _bad_ idea."

I rocked, cursing and closing my eyes to centre my balance as Lydia yanked the ribbons again, then resumed tying. I was beginning to hate this waistcoat. I had purchased it in Whiterun as part of a romantic bard costume; warm and fitted and gracefully longer, woven in shades of fiery reds and yellows with swirls of purple. I had thought it would be pretty, like a sunset, not painful, and while Lydia finished up preparing me, I looked longingly at the armour Alvor had created, hung over the back of a chair. It was worn in now, but just as fine as the first day I had seen it and assumed it was too beautiful to be functional. As my lute was an extension of my hands and a vessel for my songs, Alvor's armour now fit me like a second skin; it felt wrong to be venturing anywhere without it.

"It's okay to be scared for Vilkas," I murmured eventually. Divines knew, I was scared for the man I loved every moment he was away.

"I'm scared for _you_ ," Lydia patted down the final knot and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were bright with worry. "I don't like this. Vilkas wouldn't either. We don't even know who _he_ is, short of involved with somebody I _cannot trust_ ," she hissed, eyes flickering toward the young mage.

I tried to offer a smile of reassurance, but managed only a grimace. "The best of the bad options, right?" I reminded her shakily.

"Can I turn around yet?" Onmund's voice came from the other side of the room; an uncomfortable, impatient yelp that only served to expose his nerves.

I considered telling him no, but the words were borne of spite; I had not forgiven him for presuming to know more about my own sister than I did – for daring to assume that I didn't love her – nor could I understand how _he_ could claim to love her, but stand by as she bed another man. Something about their relationship, or whatever it was that Onmund and my sister were to each other, simply didn't make _sense_.

"Yes," I squashed my pettiness and sat, shirking on my boots.

Lydia was right to distrust him, and I wasn't going into this blinded by his heartfelt pleas. I was doing this because I needed to find out about Elder Scrolls, and Onmund would bring me one step closer to understanding where I might locate one.

Onmund turned; his ice-blue eyes looked me up and down. Guilt and fear flickered in his depths, but were gone in a heartbeat. His mouth flattened into a line as he snapped his eyes determinately closed. "Gods, I hope Brel hasn't gone back to the College," he mumbled.

I arched an eyebrow and closed the distance between us. " _Now_ you have doubts about your plan?"

"It's your job to ensure she makes it to the library, and back again to me, regardless of whose face she wears," Lydia reminded, shrugging idly. "Unless you'd rather give up on seeing Giselle again."

"Is that a threat?" Onmund hazarded a laugh as he turned in plain, wounded confusion to my housecarl.

"It is a promise," I demanded his attention, because I had a feeling Lydia _was_ trying to threaten him and everything about that made my skin crawl in discomfort. "Are you ready?"

In this borrowed form – Brel, he had named me – I was as tall as him, and when he met my eye, his focus grew more determined.

He leant a little closer, lifting his eyebrows. "Are you?"

"Always."

"You sound wrong. You'd better leave the talking to me," Onmund sighed. "I can't do voices. Yet, I mean."

Crossing my brows at the oversight, I wondered how I could ask questions of anybody if I wasn't allowed to speak?

"You'd better go and come back by the window," Lydia instructed before I could voice a reply. She threw aside the fine curtains and unlatched the frame. "I don't want the Stormcloaks to see you leave, _or_ return."

"If you insist," I accepted. Flecks of ice swirled through the gap; the flowers ruffled and the bedding shivered as the gusty outside rushed in to disturb the plush interior.

Onmund stepped past me; placed his hand on the sill. "What makes you think the _Stormcloaks_ will care what a couple of students are up to?" he muttered uneasily.

"Hey," Lydia caught his arm. Onmund's eyes flickered from her grasp, to her face. In silence, both seemed to weigh the another before Lydia lifted her eyebrows pointedly. "You be careful."

"Yeah. I get it," with a frown, he shrugged her off and let himself down into the cold night.

"That _wasn't_ a threat," Lydia insisted through her teeth.

"Are you coming, Brelyna?" Onmund drawled, suddenly sounding a little drunker than he was.

"Yes," I stuttered and hastened forward, then smiled ruefully at Lydia. "This is ridiculous, isn't it?"

"A little bit," she fixed me with a sad smile, then hugged me – and it was so, _so_ strange to be taller than her that I only managed to pat her gingerly before she stepped back.

"If you're not returned by noon tomorrow, daughter-dearest, I _will_ come after you," she warned loftily.

"You will _not_ , mother," I scoffed, easily falling into the play. "Gods, you're so _embarrassing_."

"I'll be subtle," Lydia tapped a fingertip to my nose fondly. "Lady Belamy would _never_ leave her precious daughter in the hands of a dastardly college boy," she smirked.

I snorted as I placed a hand on the frame and looked out, considering the snowdrift below where Onmund waited, his hand outstretched. A flash of open vulnerability crossed his features, and I hesitated, blinking in surprise.

I had assumed that he and Giselle were so wrapped in their lies and complications that each face he wore and word he spoke would be as carefully orchestrated as my sister's were, each time we had crossed paths since our parents' deaths. Giselle's mask had slipped at the Embassy – and now, for a second – I recognised some truth in him – some care or concern I wasn't privy to – and understood how Giselle might have been taken by this face, this young man.

 _Then why would she go to Stormcloak? How can they bear it?_

"I'll be back tomorrow," I promised, swinging my gangly legs over the sill to sit on the ledge. Once I had taken Onmund's hand, the jump to the ground was simple.

"Come on, or we'll be locked out."

To my surprise, Onmund kept a tight hold of my hand as he broke into a run. I fell into an effortless, loping trot beside him, baffled to be able to move through the snow so _quickly_ – and envying all who had been fortunate enough to be born with such long legs.

Tiny flecks of new snow whirled around us and the old crunched underfoot; a predictable, well-known ensemble pattered-out in the dark night. For a time we ran in silence with the wind at our backs, urging us on. Onmund sidled along the buildings then jumped us through a spindly garden to join the main road. With gravel dusted in the freshest snow underfoot, Onmund slowed a little, though still did not let go of my hand.

I repressed the childish urge to tug it free. "I can manage, you know," I insisted, pulling a little against his grasp by way of explanation.

Onmund chuckled; cold, white breath misted before his face as he let go, only to lope his arm around my shoulders. "You're lucky Brel had an exam today."

I waited for him to explain, but it appeared the mage was done.

"Why? Does that give you license to cuddle me?" I prompted, crossing my arms and rubbing. The undershirt I wore was long-sleeved and warm, but the wind was _biting_ , and while I didn't understand Onmund's closeness, I _was_ grateful for his sturdiness because it didn't feel as though Brel had an ounce of fat on her.

"Shut up, you waif," Onmund cast me a sideways grin, so easily falling into familiarity that it unnerved me. "I doubt she's able to stand any more, but – she has a friend, over in the store, who she crashes with when she doesn't want to go home. And – look, this isn't the first time I've helped her back to the College because she couldn't walk."

Rolling my eyes, I glanced ahead and barely resisted another urge to push him away. "How kind of you," I deadpanned.

"It _is_ kind of me-" the self-satisfied Onmund appeared; the confident, cavalier young man who'd bantered earlier with J'zargo. Was the person he showed his colleagues the real Onmund, or yet another front?

"Does Giselle know you regularly help another woman back to her room?" I managed to make the query nonchalant.

"Giselle introduced me to Brelyna," Onmund murmured as some of the mirth left his expression. "She knows we're friends."

I stared at him in wonder as he led us onward – because the Giselle _I_ knew would have been jealous. Perhaps he _did_ know the Giselle of today better than I did. "Where did you meet my sister?" I couldn't help but ask quietly.

The question was whipped from my tongue by twirling zephyrs, but Onmund caught the gist of it, for he shrugged and replied with a grimace; "Solitude."

Again, he declined to elaborate; his focus flickered back to the road and the College of Winterhold; a looming shadow beyond the whirling snow.

After a pause, I tried again. "When? I mean – I assume it was before she knew Ulfric Stormcloak, but I don't remember _you_ at all-"

"No, I expect you wouldn't-" he cut in swiftly, then reconsidered with a wince. "Sorry. This is _weird_ ," he admitted.

"What's weird?"

"Meeting you," he adjusted his arm and flexed his hand; fingers arched then closed around my shoulder. There was frustration in his eyes – and again, a ping of recognition flared deep within me.

"Wait," I considered. "I _do_ know you, don't I?"

"I don't think so," a sideways glance was sent my way; I wondered if I had imagined the flare of anger, for there was no trace of it left. "I'm _really_ glad you don't look like her any more," he murmured thoughtfully, then glanced back to the path ahead. "We're nearly home," he said through the corner of his mouth. "Look guilty and lean into me, okay? Your line is ' _greef_ ', if you're spoken to."

I smothered a laugh and stumbled into the performance. I didn't trust him or understand anything about his connection to my sister, but somehow it was almost impossible to remain cross with him. We were too near the college to continue along our former vein anyway, and fell into a shamed silence as we climbed a few icy stairs to face a tall Altmer girl.

She was rugged up against the elements in thick furs and lowered her book with a glare when Onmund cleared his throat.

Onmund threw her a short wave, smothering a burst of laughter as he tucked me closer. The mer rolled her eyes and lifted her book again, taking a step to one side to let us through.

He loosened his hold after we had rounded a corner on the ever-ascending bridge.

"She looked pretty angry with you," I commented.

Onmund shrugged, unfazed. "She kicked me out of her class at the end of last term."

"Oh," I recalled he'd mentioned something about that to his friend. "Um – why?" I asked.

"You ask a lot of questions," Onmund gave me suspicious smirk. "Come on. We'll go to Brel's room - you can change there – then we'll make for the Arcaneum."

"Why do I need to change clothes again?"

"College rules," Onmund admitted. "Can't wear commons during school hours, and Brel wouldn't be caught dead in my robes," he lifted his eyebrows pointedly.

I let myself smile, just a little, because his cooperation, and this manner of forethought, _was_ appreciated. No answer was required of me, so I took a moment to inspect the college courtyard.

Tall, dreary buildings ringed the open area with high windows set at equal distances, blackened like great, dark eyes, gloomily observing our every move. Whiteness covered the grounds with days-old snow tinted brown with dirt that clumped by the columns spanning a walkway encircling the courtyard. In the centre, the dirtiest snow betrayed the most common footpaths. The criss-crossing darker lines were offset by the freshest whiteness that blurred the sparse boughs and bristly leaves too stubborn to brown and fall in what must have been purpose-built gardens, though it appeared nobody had tended to them for a while.

Onmund guided me to the right along the column-lined walkway, then pushed open the first heavy door we came to.

I stepped into a dimly lit entry room after him, though my mind was still taking in the details of my brief glance at the College of Winterhold. I felt...saddened by it, somehow. It was lacking; too cold and uniform, though I supposed this college was never intended to inspire creativity, at least in the way that mine was.

"I doubt anybody will be up now-" Onmund began as he shed his coat.

"Assumptions such as that might get a lesser-man killed, Master Brandt," a stern, elegant voice interrupted.

Onmund froze, glancing up with eyes wide on the brighter, open area before us, and cursed under his breath. "Just helping my friend back to her room, sir," he said hopefully, flashing me an urgent look.

I crossed my brows in confusion but before he could convey anything of use, a form blocked most of the light from the central room, and both Onmund and I turned to him in guilt-fuelled unison.

He was Altmer, and if Onmund called him 'sir' he was probably a teacher – but I could deduce nothing else from the shadows of the blank expression set into the silhouette.

It unnerved me that I couldn't see the eyes that were so pointedly fixed on me properly.

"Miss Maryon, how nice of you to stumble home for a change after one of your post-exam celebrations."

"Greef," I tried a slur, lowering my eyes.

" _Excuse_ me?" the mer bit out.

Onmund coughed a laugh and suddenly he was by my side, his arm resolutely around my shoulders. "We're back before curfew, Master Ancano," he laughed again; the shaky nervousness was back. "So, I'll just," he nodded toward the central room.

"You will just _not_ , Master Brandt," Master Ancano commanded curtly. He nodded toward the door to the courtyard. "Go."

Onmund's shoulders sunk, then he released me. "Sorry, Brel," he whispered, conveying another icy-blue look of dread.

I offered him a lazy smile and a slow blink despite the hammer of my heart in my chest, and wavered slightly on my feet for good measure. When he turned and left me there, I prayed that his spell would last a _little_ longer, or I might need Lydia to storm the college after all.

"Well?" Ancano dragged my feigned-sluggish attention back to him. "To bed with you, Miss Maryon."

"Yessir," I bumbled, sidling past the watchful, immobile mer as a surge of fear tore through me. Very suddenly, I understood what Onmund had been trying desperately to convey. I should have realised sooner!

 _Which room is Brelyna's?!_

There was only one thing to do, and it was going to hurt. With a preemptive wince, I staggered into a table along the wall, tripped over my feet, and let myself fall. Stars exploded behind my eyes as I hit the cool flagstones, resisting every instinct to lift my hands.

"Urghh," I groaned as real tears of pain welled. My cheek and chest and knees had taken the fall; I bit my tongue to keep from crying out, because if Brelyna was _this_ intoxicated, it would prevent her from feeling it.

The Altmer teacher bit out a curse and I heard the shuffle of approaching footfalls. I winced as I opened my eyes and found booted feet marring my vision.

I stared up foggily. "Sir?" I croaked.

"Get up," he snapped.

"Urghh," I tried again, burying my un-bruised cheek into the cool flagstones. It was mortifying to behave this way, and I wasn't certain what this performance would mean for the _real_ Brelyna's future at the college, particularly if she _had_ failed an exam today. Perhaps she would appreciate the alibi, as it appeared she _had_ stayed away from the college tonight? At this point, I just needed him to _leave_.

Master Ancano gave a snort of disgust as he – _thank the Divines!_ – started to do just that. "Then remain where you are, and freeze," he clipped. "I want you and Brandt in my office at eight, are we clear? I do not tolerate this kind of behaviour from _any_ of my students."

I mumbled something unintelligible as the door closed behind him, and realised it had been an order, not a request. He didn't require a response.

With a wince, I pushed myself up so I could sit on the heels of my boots and take the weight off my aching knees. I tested my cheek, placing pressure on the hotness I found there, and frowned as I spotted a smudge of blood through the undershirt on one of my elbows. I must have snagged it on my way down.

It was nothing a healing potion wouldn't fix, and taking the fall had gotten me out of what could have been a _very_ bad situation.

But – now what? Would Onmund come back once he realised that teacher had left, or was I on my own the rest of the way?

"Wow, Brel," an amused female voice murmured from across the room. "Just – _wow_."

I glanced up hastily and saw another Altmer, this time a girl dressed in a beautiful rose-pink and gold night robe standing in one of the open doorways. Pale blonde hair fell in smooth waves around her shoulders, softening the hard angles of her high cheekbones and pointed chin.

Her arms were crossed and she leaned as though she had been observing for some time, barefoot and casual, but smiled knowingly as she pushed off the wall to approach. "You know how to make a mess of yourself, I'll give you that."

 _Is everybody in this damned school awake,_ I cursed? I had to give her a response, so I groaned and turned my head down, shifting my palm to my forehead.

With a huff of laughter, the girl knelt before me. "Here, let me," she soothed, encouraging me to release my hand. My eyes flickered to her in alarm; surely, this close, she would somehow see through the ruse.

She inspected my cheek with slightly narrowed eyes, then sent me another small, consoling smile when she realised I was watching her every move. "You okay?"

I nodded dumbly; Onmund's insistence that I sounded _wrong_ rung in my ears.

"Hold still for a bit."

I closed my eyes as the student's hand settled on my bruising cheek. The tell-tale sound of restoration magic tinkled around me and blissful warmth flowed through my cold, weary limbs. The dull, lingering pain dispersed.

"Huh."

The magic stopped suddenly.

I opened my eyes in time to see the Altmer sit back on her feet. She fixed me with a quizzical expression, tilting her head slightly. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.

With a flash of panic, I glanced down to my hands – my confusion doubled when I stared at the unchanged, dark-skinned, long-fingered hands of the woman whose identity I was borrowing. "You know who I am," I mumbled, hoping, _praying_ that it was a joke.

"Okay then, who am I?" she quipped, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"The High Queen of Skyrim," I groaned as I closed my eyes. "Can't this wait til morning?" I pleaded, purposefully slurring my words.

With a _hmph_ , I heard the mer shift, and then a too-close sound I didn't expect; _sniff-sniff_.

My eyes shot open as the Altmer girl pulled back. "Yeah, there is _no_ alcohol on your breath. Who _are_ you?"

I swallowed nervously, glancing around the room for help – or at least a hole to sink into. "The restoration spell must have-"

"Nope," the girl lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. Her hand whipped forward and slim fingers encased my wrist. "Why was Onmund sneaking you in here? What have you done with Brelyna?" her voice rose in accusation.

" _Please_ calm down," I lifted my free hand imploringly, twisting my other in an effort to make her release me. I would have to tell her something – or _Fus_ and suffer _those_ consequences. But no – surely I could save the situation – somehow – I was a _bard_ , for Shor's sake! "Can we go somewhere quiet? I'll explain," I whispered.

"What, so you can do away with me, too?" the girl narrowed her eyes. "If you won't tell me, I'll have to find out for myself," she waved her free hand.

At first I thought it had been in dismissal, but realisation flooded me as a pale, green mist gathered in her palm – and was swiftly fired at my face.

"No, wait-!" I coughed – but it was too late. My body shrank and when the glow faded, I was small and pale and _me_ again.

The Altmer girl's green eyes widened in disbelief – then realisation. " _Oh_ ," all the fury was gone, to be replaced with an incredulous understanding.

"Oh?" I echoed in a small voice.

"Well," she let go of me and gave a little laugh of delight as she smoothed down her robe and stood. "I can guess who _you_ are."

"Can you?" I winced, but my heart hammered so loudly in my ears that I was surprised it hadn't called every mage in the college to our location.

"Brel is _definitely_ in on this," she laughed as her eyes met mine. "Onmund doesn't shut up about you," the green orbs shone cheekily. "Why did he bring you here, though?" she tilted her head again. "He's already annoyed Faralda – he could be expelled," she sounded far too amused by the prospect.

"I..." faltering, I glanced around the common area in desperation. She thought I was Giselle. Onmund had told them – _something_ – about my sister. Enough for this student to recognise me - _her_. "Please, can you...take me to Onmund? That Master Ancano made him leave-"

"It's no wonder," she cut in smoothly. "And there are strict rules about fraternisation on college grounds," she nodded toward me; her fingers drummed against her arm.

"Are you going to turn me over to the headmaster?" I rushed; if she did I could possibly still gain what I had come for.

"What?" the mer's eyes widened. A laugh bubbled out of her, and she waved her hands in front of her. "Gosh, of course not. Who do you think I am?"

"I've no idea," I pointed out.

"Right," she fluttered, smiling as she extended a hand. "I'm Nirya. And, _you're_ the fabled Giselle," she added with a flourish.

"Of course," I repeated, quietened as I took her hand; both an introduction, and to help me to my feet. "Onmund has...talked about me?" I tried to seem cautiously flattered.

" _Incessantly_ ," Nirya rolled her eyes. "Come on."

I must have betrayed silent concern, because Nirya laughed again. "There's a passageway. Leads to the men's dorms, if you take the right turns."

"Passageway?" I repeated dumbly. With a grimace, I remembered why we had come here before the library – I was not dressed appropriately, and I was supposed to get changed. "Can I borrow a set of school robes first?" I asked as I tugged at the waistcoat ties.

"Of course – that's a really good idea," Nirya commented with approval, then towed me toward a room. "He's told us of your cleverness. And your stubbornness – but," she waved her hand quickly, "you know, in a good way. And your _irresistible beauty_ -" she groaned. "On and on and _on_ with the dark, flowing hair and the eyes as blue as sapphires-"

I made myself smile and flush because I had to see this through appropriately, though truthfully I didn't know how Giselle in love might behave. If this was the first time she had met Nirya, I assumed the mer didn't either.

I glanced around the bedroom with feigned interest. It was barely a closet with a bed in its centre, a bookshelf full of books above the bed, and a wardrobe crammed into a corner. She deposited me on the meticulously-smooth bed and started considering the contents of the wardrobe. "Brel's robes will all be too tall, but I doubt you'll need it for long," she flashed me a cheeky look.

I sat on my hands and glanced to the rug covering the flagstones; swirling lines of tan and white, blackened – singed? – in places. "What _exactly_ has Onmund been saying about me?" I queried uncomfortably, making myself look up to the mer.

Nirya selected a set of teal-and-tan robes and turned. She smiled, though I caught a sense of sadness, or pity, behind it. "Honestly?" she removed the robe from its hanger and held it out before her critically; her eyes flickered back and forth from it to me. "He talks of his regrets. That he didn't elope with you and start a new life somewhere else; that he let you come to Windhelm at all."

"Mm," I sighed non-committally, but once again, my heart began to race. _Onmund's from Windhelm._

"This should fit, and there's a hood if you need to cast your face in shadow," she handed the heavy robes to me. The material was thick; it would be warm. I supposed all clothes had to be up here.

"At first glance, you'll look like one of us."

"Thank you," I stood and turned, placing the clothes on the bed so I could untie my outfit. I fiddled with the waistcoat ribbons as time ticked on between us.

"What else does he...regret?" I asked eventually; an effort to fill the silence purposefully. Perhaps I could learn something from this willing student, and she didn't seem to be worried about the fact that the Empire had declared Giselle a wanted fugitive. Perhaps that news hadn't reached the college yet.

Nirya sat on the bed. "Can you not guess?" she posed delicately.

I shrugged the waistcoat off and tossed it aside. "We have been apart for so long that I try never to assume," I replied sadly, grabbing the robes. A twinge of guilt tugged at my calm.

"Well," Nirya blinked a few times, taken aback as I turned to her and tied the sash. "His father, of course," she murmured. "It must have been...difficult, given your family's loyalties," a flash of uncertainty crossed Nirya's features; a reluctance, or remorse of her own. "But his deepest regret is...leaving you...in his father's care. Never imagined that he'd _really_ make you part of his army."

"Oh. Right. Yes, of course," I murmured. I smoothed the robes down to give my hands something to do. I had to turn away from her, but made myself look busy as I suddenly understood why I kept thinking I _knew_ Onmund. I didn't _know_ him, but I _recognised_ him because...

" _Drunk bastard."_

" _Don't let me forget it."_

The memory of ice-blue eyes seared through me, but they weren't Onmund's eyes, they were older and fiercer, and suddenly my legs were trembling. Reaching out for something – anything, I sat hurriedly on the edge of the bed.

I recognised Onmund because he was Ulfric's _son_.

My hands shook and I brushed them down my legs in a futile attempt to contain my fear, though I couldn't pinpoint which piece of information scared me the most, or why it scared me at all. I should have felt fury and indignation, but _fear_ was the only emotion I could place, and the longer I sat, the more welled up inside of me, thick and syrupy, drowning all else.

"Giselle?" Nirya queried gently. "Are you..." she faltered. "When did you last sleep?"

I begged a moment around a thick tongue, then bit it so I wouldn't babble. I sternly reminded myself that Giselle and Ulfric's entanglement was _not_ common knowledge. Onmund's regrets might have run deeper than those he told his friends, but Nirya was aware of nothing more than a conflict of loyalty that Giselle would have had to face in order to stand with Stormcloak against the Empire. Against our _family_.

 _But._ How had Giselle replaced Onmund to rise through the ranks of the Stormcloaks and become Ulfric's...what exactly? Mistress? Eventual queen? Giselle had said she _understood him_ better than anyone when I had questioned her outside of Rorikstead. Her soft expression had suggested she felt _something_ for him; I had assumed it was devotion. Had she been a victim of circumstances – and over time, come to care for Ulfric? Or was even that face part of her act? When – and how had she moved from someone left in his _care_ , to Ulfric's _woman_?

And – how could he do that to his _son_? How could Onmund have left her with him, and stood back knowingly as-

I covered my mouth with my hand as nausea churned and threatened to evacuate my dinner.

"Do you...need some water, or-?" Nirya tried again.

"Just a moment," I spoke through my palm, because I might still fall or vomit if I rose. Closing my eyes, I focussed on breathing – great, deep breaths designed to clear my mind and focus. I registered the feel of unfamiliar cloth against my skin; Brelyna's too-tall robes. The teal parts were soft, and the tan, scratchy. I focussed on the understanding that if I failed to find my calm, I might never complete what I had come to do, and none of the horrors anyone had endured would matter.

 _Later,_ I begged.

Finally, I felt something other than fear; a burning frustration at myself. Why was it always 'later' with my emotions, my family, my loved ones? Repress, lock away, deny, repeat, until the floodgates burst and drowned me with potent memories.

 _That must be how Giselle does it; she doesn't allow herself to think on it._ My frustration shifted; deflated. My chest suddenly _ached_. Fear of my sister showed its second edge, sometimes dulled but never entirely blunted, shifting into fear both of and for her.

The _how_ was still a hazy mire of unknowns and guesses, but a few pieces of information, while still speculation, began to knit together. Ulfric's _attitude_ toward her must have changed when she told him she was descended from the Septims. That, I determined, desperate to glean some reason, would have been the turning point. I knew she had told him – _but why?_ – from the letter Delphine had received from Ulfric questioning her claims.

I blanched as another question pushed its way through my tumultuous thoughts. Had Giselle's presence convinced Ulfric that he _would_ succeed in becoming overlord of not only his Hold, but all of Skyrim? That he could risk deposing High King Torygg, because he had a Septim on his side? Could it...was it possible that Giselle's claims had _resulted_ in the Civil War?

They had told me she _dreamed_ of Septim and Stormcloak uniting. Ulfric had written this to Delphine at the end of that first term when we had assumed Giselle was at school – right _here_ – learning how to become a mage. Ulfric must have seen Giselle as an opportunity to – what? Become ruler of Tamriel, if he could claim her?

And for some reason, _Onmund_ had come here instead of her – _she_ had insisted. He'd admitted that part himself. And whether they were in love or not, Giselle had given Onmund mother's ring. Perhaps, as with my gesture to Hadvar when I had assumed I was leaving him forever, she simply meant to leave a part of her with him; a part of her that she had to leave behind in order to remain with Stormcloak.

I tried, desperately, to put myself in her position; to imagine that I was in love with Hadvar but had to stand by – and be with – another man. I had been playing the role of Giselle, now and then when the occasion required, and I had been trained to pretend by making myself answer the questions my sister would have had to overcome.

But the notion was foreign and frightful and infuriating and completely ridiculous all at once. To choose as she had done would break me, break my mind – living such a lie each day. _Nothing_ in this world would make me agree to such an arrangement.

 _Not even if it meant you could save Skyrim?_

My stomach clenched as my sister's words rung heavy in my ears, thick with her - _was it feigned?_ \- emotion:

" _All I have done, all I have endured, has been for the good of Tamriel."_

Movement by the entryway to Brelyna's room caught my attention; my eyes, widened in fear and praying that it wasn't that Altmer teacher, snapped to it.

"Look who's _finally_ decided to show up," Nirya drawled smugly; the faintest trace of a tremor marred her tone.

" _Giselle_ ," it was Onmund; the panic in his eyes appeased the second he sighted me. "Nirya, thank the Gods _you_ found her," he stepped into the room.

Confused and scared, the edges of my vision began to blur. He wore such a soft, relieved expression – set with eyes too similar to his horrid father's – and I realised that Stormcloak had taken everything from him, his own _blood_. Were we all so defenceless against Ulfric Stormcloak? Would he never be satisfied in his desire to take, to _conquer_?

I burst into tears, startling everyone, even myself – for I hadn't been able to reign the surge of dismay back fast enough.

"What did you say to her?!" Onmund sounded more fearful than accusing.

"Me?!" Nirya fired back. The bed moved and the student strode across the room; stabbed a long index finger into his chest. " _You_ left her here! You're lucky I hadn't gone to bed yet. Now," she waved her hand, hesitating to swallow and nod. "Go to her," she commanded quietly. "Get her somewhere safe," she flickered me a worried glance, and moved to leave. "I will pretend neither of you were ever here," she muttered.

Onmund cursed and inched inside, hands out in pre-emptive defence, as though worried I would lash out at him. Perhaps I _should_ , perhaps that would make _me_ feel better – but the despair was too thick and the fear too sharp to summon my focus, a thu'um – anything beyond these damnable tears.

I turned away and clenched my eyes closed; shielded my face in embarrassment with both hands. Why was I _crying_ when I had felt so _angry_ a moment ago? The sight of him hurrying toward me, understanding and giving in to the ruse that I was my sister and would comfort me – it had been the final straw. _This_ revelation on the back of several days worth of disappointment was enough; apparently I was _done_ suppressing.

I choked out a sob as I registered movement through gaps in my fingers. "You're his – and-" I couldn't assemble what I needed to say, and gave up, covering my face more securely to muffle the despair.

Onmund didn't respond. Perhaps, uncertain of what to say or do, he had snuck out and left me alone in my grief.

But within heartbeats, I felt the bed shift beside me again, then his hands were on mine, trying to uncover my face.

"Don't hide it," he urged in a murmur.

He pulled on my hands more insistently, and – baffled, I let him see my puffed-up face and watery eyes. The tears continued to track paths down my cheeks, and I squinted through the blur, wondering if he seemed so calm because he had done this before, with my sister. Perhaps he was used to seeing her cry.

"Does he destroy _all_ in his path?" I blubbed, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

"I want to say 'you have no idea', but that'd be a bit unfair," he was still too quiet, and sighed a shaking breath; his eyes not on me but my shoulder as a large, comforting hand settled there, so tentative and uncertain that it set me off anew. My eyes snapped closed and my hands gripped Brelyna's bedding as the wave of sadness shook me – and the hand left me swiftly, as though he had been burned.

"It's best not to overthink it," Onmund cut in, quiet but insistent. A joyless huff left him.

I leaned back to observe him and my brows knotted in confusion. I wanted to lash out at him – blame him for his weakness – for not protecting her somehow – but the high pink on his cheeks and tears in _his_ eyes held me back. It was plain that he was, somehow, not in control of any part of my sister's situation, and he clearly blamed himself already.

Slowly, almost in defeat, he flashed me an uncomfortable glance, then hurriedly looked at his lap, though seemed to stare at nothing. "There is no point in asking why he does anything. I have been asking myself why he did this or that for my entire life. And, as for why _I_ did it – why I _allowed_ it," he shrugged helplessly. "Because your sister is my heart and soul, and she asked me to trust her."

That made _no_ sense, and the wracking sobs retreated; tears continued to well but at least, for the moment, I could form words. I propped myself up to stare at him, but wasn't certain where to even begin trying to understand. Perhaps with a simple confirmation.

"That teacher called you Brandt," I sniffled quietly. "But – Nirya seems to know who you are. Does everyone know you're Stormcloak's son, or just your friends? Are you in hiding?"

"Not really," he tilted his head a little. "Brandt is...the name of my nanny, the woman who raised my half-brothers and I," he glanced away regretfully, shuddering as he regarded the ceiling.

My heart twisted in dismay; I was squeezing unpleasant details out of him. This wasn't why I was here; these truths wouldn't further my purpose.

" _Why do you think everything is about being Dragonborn?"_ a memory of Farkas scolded me.

It wasn't. And, it wasn't like I had him at knife-point. He was speaking to me of his own free will. Perhaps he needed to get it out, as much as I needed to hear it, regardless of the pain it would dredge to the surface.

"Ulfric doesn't let bastards take his name," he confirmed his status in one swift sentence. "He kept us close, but he has to legitimise you and now that-" Onmund huffed bleakly; shook his head as he changed his mind. "As though I would ever _want_ his name," he muttered.

I sat up a little further; regarded him a little more closely. "Can you tell me why she's been by his side for three years? I _know_ you know that."

Onmund didn't try to deny it and gave a small nod. With another loud exhale – talking through the past seemed to affect his breathing – he closed his eyes; steeled himself. "Do you know about her nightmares yet?"

"I've heard she has them," I admitted quietly. "But – surely, they're just dreams..." I stuttered in a firm desire to dismiss it.

"I'm glad you know," he gave me a sideways glance – then blinked, glanced down; stared at his open palms again, as though I had startled him. "She didn't want to tell you. Been hiding them, since they started."

"When did they start?" I paled; guilt surged through my bones. The more important _why didn't she want me to know_ rocked me, but I couldn't bare to ask it.

"Some time after she turned fourteen. Around the time she started taking lessons in magic after school, from that Altmer mage across the street."

"Melaran?" I frowned, confused. "She loved those classes. Did they cause her to dream?" I mused.

"I don't know. How _did_ you find out about her dreams?" Onmund asked, suddenly a little wary.

I opened my mouth, but my mind spun back to five years prior, trying to remember if I had seen any change in my sister's attitude then that could have indicated she wasn't sleeping well. She had certainly become grumpier, but to be fair, so had I as my body had rudely shirked me from child- into woman-hood. And we had had little to do with each other as our interests had grown apart.

"Did your precious Legion tell you in one of their reports?" he prompted. "I assume they know _everything-_ "

I shook my head swiftly, realising that I had to reply. "Delphine Comtois told me," I tested.

Onmund grimaced; his nose wrinkled distastefully. "Naturally."

"Before you assume the worst, I'm _not_ working with her," I laughed bleakly; it sounded more like a sob, but was tearless. "I take it you don't like her either?"

"Does anybody?" Onmund grumbled.

"Ulfric trusts her," I pointed out unhelpfully.

"Well," Onmund's eyes finally rose and he pinned me with a shared glimmer of understanding. "All the more reason to not trust her."

Nodding once, I prompted, "What did Giselle see in her dreams? Did she tell you?"

"Yes," the hard edge to his eyes softened, and the frosty blue stared at me, glancing up and down. His brows crossed in anguish. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to look at you?" he swallowed. "I've _dreamed_ of us attending the college together, just like we planned before-"

"I'm _not_ her –"

" _No_ but – you wear her face and-"

"Do you want me to stand outside while we talk?" I posed incredulously.

"Just –" he stood abruptly; strode toward the door. "I can't do this _here_."

I stood hastily but didn't move after him straight away. "Make me look like Brelyna again," I hissed; my frustration plain. We would get _nowhere_ if he was immobilised by my _appearance_.

Onmund shook his head. "It was stupid of me to think _that_ would work for long in a school full of mages," he misinterpreted my insistence. "At least Master Ancano wasn't the one to suspect you. Come on," he departed Brelyna's room and turned left. "Raise the hood," he added in afterthought.

I did as he bade, lifting the fold of teal edged in tan up and over my dark curls as I rushed out. I looked up to him in question, and realised just how tall he was now I was my own height again. _Of course he's big, he's Ulfric's son._

Resolutely, I looked straight ahead. For a time I focussed on only keeping pace with the Nord and pushing aside the anxious questions bubbling within.

Onmund led me to a kitchen that smelled strongly of burnt toast and old coffee, but continued on into the storage cupboard, and further still as he flicked open a hidden panel at the rear of the shelves before some bags of potatoes. The wall parted and the mage summoned a small, spherical ball of white light that hovered in his palm and made the flagstones under our feet shimmer.

"Where are we going?" I whispered. I peered through the blackness, trying to make out what lay ahead.

Onmund stepped into the gloom, lighting up a close, bricked passageway. This must have been part of the tunnel system Nirya mentioned.

"The Arcaneum," he murmured. "As promised," he whispered in afterthought.

"Isn't it still closed?" I frowned, stepping after him. A shudder rippled through me as the shadows crept over me – Onmund could extinguish his spell and leave me in the stifling nothingness and I might never find my way out.

"Can you press the red button on the wall there?" Onmund asked over his shoulder.

 _Trust him; he wants to see Giselle._ I hit it; the panel slid shut. The sound of wood scraping stone faded as Onmund walked forward. The Candlelight spell was only bright enough to light up a small area around him, so I remained a close footstep behind.

"Yes, it's closed until dawn," he admitted quietly; his voice was absorbed by the tall walls. "But we can't wait in the dorms – not together – and wandering college grounds after curfew is prohibited – and really dumb – it's too cold. Don't worry," he cast me a tentative half-smile over his shoulder. "I know a few good hiding places. Gro-Shub won't even know we're there when he opens up."

"All right," I shuddered again, biting back a wave of nausea that rose at the thought of being sprung by another teacher. "Just...don't abandon me again, okay?"

Onmund seemed to choke on incredulity. "Are you tormenting me on _purpose_?" he turned back, holding a hand up so I would stop.

I was so close to him that I didn't see the signal in time and bumped into his open palm.

He drew in a sharp breath; his hand on my chest suddenly trembled. "Gods, you have no idea how it pains me to see you dressed in mage's robes."

I glared and pointedly removed his hand, which he seemed to have forgotten about. "Stop it, Onmund. We might _look_ the same, but I am _not_ my sister."

"I _know_ you're not."

"Then stop saying things like that."

He scowled and turned, and from that moment we proceeded in silence, both too frustrated with the other to be the first to break it. Eventually, after too many twists and turns to count, the passageway split in half, and Onmund took the ascending path to our left, which soon turned into a tight spiral staircase.

At the top it levelled out to a small landing before a simple wooden door, and Onmund pressed his free hand to the lock underneath the handle. The deep concentration on his features, half cast in white light and half in shadow, made him seem like a statue.

Yellow flickered in his hand; a soft _click_ broke the silence. Dispelling whatever alteration magic had let him unlock a door, he glanced back to me, lifted a finger to his lips, and extinguished the Candlelight before I could acknowledge.

We were plunged into darkness and panic gripped my throat – but for no more than a second or two. Onmund pushed the door out, peering into the slightly less infinite darkness beyond – and I could breathe again.

Satisfied by what he saw, or didn't see I rather expected, he opened the door properly and stepped up into the Arcaneum.

I followed and took in the room as he closed and relocked the door with more magic. I had to bite back my gasp. In the still, quiet greyness I could just make out row after row of shelves, piled stories high to the ceiling – containing more books than my grandparent's expansive library in the Imperial City; perhaps more than the Arcane University itself. One of these books might contain the information I needed on Elder Scrolls, but I _would_ need to speak to the librarian, this Gro-Shub, if I hoped to find the right book before the Divines took me. Ladders on rungs marked intervals between shelves as dense, linear shadows, and high above, faceted panes of glass knit together to form a crystalline dome, frosted with windswept snow and only showing a mere shimmer of aurorae where the glass had been recently blown clean. High aloft, the wind whistled and moaned mournfully as the flecks of ice on the dome scattered and were instantly replaced with more frosted white.

Onmund stepped past me; pressed his fingers to my elbow momentarily. The flare of anger I had seen in the tunnel was gratefully gone, to be replaced with solemnity. He lifted his fingers to his lips once again, then motioned for me to follow.

Our boots made little sound as we shuffled across the vast reading room and past the vacant loans desk in the centre of the colossal library. After alighting a few shallow steps, Onmund directed me to a gap between shelves where a deep azure curtain, fringed in gold thread, hung from roof to floor. Similar curtains speckled the landscape of books at sequential intervals, and when Onmund shifted the weighty material aside, a study nook was revealed.

The table and bench seats were built into the stone walls of the same uniform grey and a faceted window overlooked what I thought might be the sea, though the panes were a little too blurred to tell. As with the glass dome above, much of the vista was obscured by layers of ice stuck to the outer surface and snow pummelling into it. Onmund waved before him, indicating I should slide onto the stone seat.

It was mercifully padded with a long, navy-blue cushion. I shuffled along it, toward the window, grimacing at how hard and lumpy the cushion felt; it was clearly well-used. Onmund closed the curtain behind us, cast another spell that burned purple and made my ears pop, then joined me.

Only once the purple spell faded completely and the curtain stopped moving did the mage let out an audible sigh. "Gro-Shub shouldn't check these first thing," he murmured, placing his hands, palm down, to the heavy stone tabletop suspended in front of us. His eyes betrayed that faraway look again, staring beyond his hands, and I wondered what he was thinking about.

"Won't he open the curtains to let in the dawn's light?"

Onmund shook his head with a tilt. "Past librarians would have, but Gro-Shub thinks even the weak light we get up here damages the older books. No," he sat back; the distance I had observed was gone, and he cast me a rather wry smile. "We'll be safe here. Once he unlocks and makes for his desk, we'll skirt around the shelves on the eastern wing and make it look like we came in from the balcony to ask him your questions."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Gro-Shub won't care that I'm not a student?"

Onmund's smile grew more amused as he shook his head. "Gro-Shub doesn't take much notice of anyone. Doubt he knows who _I_ am, and I've lived here for three years."

I shrugged; I was in no position to doubt his knowledge of the Arcaneum or its surly-sounding overseer. He could offer any manner of suggestion, and I would have to trust him. "Okay. So it's safe to talk now?" I confirmed.

"Yeah," he grimaced; the amusement in his eyes was replaced with resignation. "The Muffle spell will last a couple of hours. You must have a lot of...yeah," he settled more quietly. "Go on, then."

I wanted to ask about Giselle's involvement with the Thalmor, her interactions with Delphine – if any – and of course, about her dreams and what they had inspired in Ulfric – but I held off as I took in the defeat writ plain on Onmund's face.

"You know," I shuffled; tried to get more comfortable. "I...saw Giselle," I told him, sitting back to fold my hands in my lap. The nook was surprisingly warm given the battering the glass outside was taking, but the cushion barely provided relief from the hard stone underneath. "Very recently, at the Thalmor Embassy," I added hastily.

I was pleased to see confusion inch onto his features, because anything was better than defeat. "Was...she all right?"

"She wasn't their prisoner," I assured. "No. This was a few weeks ago, before..." I waved my hand and left the rest unsaid.

"Oh."

I pushed on. "I _thought_ she was their prisoner, though. That's why we went in," I explained, reluctant to mention Delphine's part in _that_ disaster. "I was with Hadvar."

Onmund's confusion deepened with a tuck to his brow and a frown. "Your Legionnaire husband wanted to help you _save_ her?" he asked dubiously.

"He's my fiancee," I corrected softly, leaving his doubts unattended. "But – before I could look for her, she walked into the ballroom on the arm of one of the Thalmor Emissaries, confident and charming. If Hadvar hadn't been with me, I'm not sure what I might have said or done," I owned, swallowing down a small surge of grief. Had I known what I now knew, _could_ I have gotten her out of the Thalmor's grip then and there?

Onmund shuffled a little; wiped his palms against his trouser legs. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked quietly.

"Because," I laughed sadly, shaking my head in disbelief. "She was there to give the Empire false information that would trap Hadvar and his battalion," I watched him for response.

He grimaced. "Sorry. _Gods_ , I hate this war," he grit his teeth.

"Hadvar's fine," I pushed on. "And despite being a spy for Stormcloak – she actually saved me that night at the Embassy. I did something stupid – _really_ stupid – and she came to help me. I think," I wrinkled my brow. "That's the frustrating, confusing thing about my sister. She saved me, and not two minutes later, cast a spell on me to make me speak the truth."

Onmund groaned but I pressed on before he could try apologise for her again.

"When I told her we'd come to save her, thinking she was a prisoner, she...looked afraid," I met his eye; searched him, as though he could explain for her. "I mean – _properly_ afraid. She insisted that I leave at once."

Onmund lifted a hand in doubt; the corner of his mouth curved up with it. "She...didn't want you involved-" he placated gently.

"I _am_ involved," I cut in, glancing toward the windows speckled with frost and clumping snowflakes. "I'm the Dragonborn," I murmured to the glass. "And I know Akatosh should have chosen her. She's the one with the magic – she's the stronger sister. The useful twin," I admitted with a swallow. "I know that everyone looking for signs believed _she_ would be made Dragonborn, when one...might be required."

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled; a question, fleeting as it brushed me, asked if Ulfric had _known_ starting a war might expose the Passero line and force the Dragonborn within to surface?

When I glanced to the mage and found a flicker of guilt in his icy-blue depths, I knew it was true. I nodded. I had spoken the words; I must accept them. Everybody _had_ assumed she would gain Akatosh's favour. Perhaps even...

"Did... _she_ think she would be made Dragonborn?"

"She _is_ dragonborn," Onmund reminded me in an earnest but quiet tone. "Just because she can't thu'um like you doesn't make her any _less_ dragonborn than you."

"You know what I mean," I narrowed my eyes. "I'm the one whose been tasked with solving this Alduin problem."

"What's an Alduin?"

"He's the dragon in control of the other dragons. The one bringing them back to life. Sorry," I mumbled, remembering that only a handful of people knew about _that_. About _him._

"Another _dragon_ is behind-?"

"It doesn't matter," I waved it off; clenched my eyes closed a moment to focus. "What does is that – despite the task falling to me, Giselle has somehow been three steps ahead for this entire ridiculous journey, and I don't know why. If I'm to save Skyrim of anything," I opened my eyes, the point of my ramblings – my insistence Vilkas find her – suddenly clear. I faced Onmund with resigned determination. "I...think I need her help."

It was painful to admit.

"I need to know what she knows," I pressed hurriedly. "And I need to understand why she has done – all she has done."

Onmund shuffled again; crossed his brows. "Is that why you've sent someone to find her?"

"Sort of," I shrugged helplessly. "There's a lot more to it."

"There usually is," he murmured thoughtfully. "Okay."

"Okay?" I baulked.

"Yeah," he shrugged, as though it were obvious; his tone was more supportive than I had expected. "That makes sense to me, and – it will to her, too. What do you need to know?"

"Okay," I repeated dumbly, taking check. "Right. Um," I shook myself. "Thanks," I faltered. Where to begin?

"I could tell you about her dreams?" he offered with a saddened smile.

I hesitated and met his eye. "Does she dream about the future?"

It felt ridiculous to ask, but I had to _know_.

Onmund scrunched his nose in distaste. "Sometimes. It's – not that simple."

I arched an eyebrow and tilted my head. _Really? My sister visions the future and you think anything about that is simple?_

"I mean," Onmund blinked, then strived to clarify. "The dreams she fears the most are as symbolic as they could be called prophetic. They're not," he paused, waving his hand as though it helped summon the right words. "You know. Sequential series of events or anything. They're more abstract."

I pushed down a flicker of fear. "What _exactly_ has she seen?"

When he frowned at me uncertainly, I hurriedly added, "Maybe I will be able to interpret the symbols in a different way."

"Oh," he muttered quietly. "Okay, sure," he closed his eyes; shuddered a deep breath. "I remember Ulfric had brought my half-brothers and I to Solitude for a gathering – the Burning of King Olaf..." he drifted off; tilted his head as the tops of his cheeks grew pink. "I – snuck out, to visit your sister, after the celebrations had died down, and...she asked me to stay. I couldn't say no to her – and planned to go out the window before dawn so your parents wouldn't find me – but –" he pressed on hurriedly, "she had a nightmare. I had to wake her, and she was in a panic – it was really scary actually-"

"What was it that frightened her?" I asked gently, a little spooked, and a little miffed at all that had gone on under my nose.

"She dreamed about...a colossal metal creature, looming above her," he shrugged helplessly. "And she was holding something – a little statue. It glowed, and the golem glowed, and she was tugged with this metal man, up into the sky, only it wasn't the sky?" he frowned. "It was nothingness. The golem turned her head and held her eyes open, making her watch the clouds far below as they churned and spat and their colours overlapped and merged and dissolved, out of existence. Then it spoke, in her head; _You made this_.

"She realised it wasn't clouds but people, places, mighty cities falling and others rising; mountains exploding and the air erupting into flames to choke civilisations. It was too small and fast to focus on one event, but there was a lot of death – and then the golem wrapped its arms around her and exploded as well."

"What?" I deadpanned, though my heart couldn't help but race at the prospect of so much destruction. But – how could something so strange be considered prophetic?

"I know," Onmund agreed in a dry tone. "I told her it was the product of the burning and too many spiced meads. But the dreams kept coming."

"The golem again?"

He tilted his head in dissatisfied uncertainty. "Sometimes. Other times, she was trapped in buildings while the sky boiled red and daedra broke through the windows – and she was paralysed, unable to help or even look away as hell-beasts spilled in and took the lives of everyone around her."

"That's – _awful_ -" I managed thickly. I blinked hastily and swallowed down the lump in my throat. _Why hadn't she told me?_

"There were more but – she had trouble explaining because there was so much happening in them. Said it was like trying to assemble ten different messages into the one sentence, but that they couldn't be any bigger because none of them could exist without the other. She said the words would only _blur_ , whatever that means."

A chill ran down my spine. "She couldn't just...write it down, or tell you in a paragraph?" I asked, baffled.

Onmund shook his head sadly. "I thought the nightmares a sign of stress, after a time. She was worried she wouldn't be accepted into the college, and her mind was inventing these...bizarre world-ending events as a way of preparing her."

"Did _she_ believe in her dreams?" I frowned.

"Not at first," Onmund grimaced. "Not until she started...dreaming about people she knew."

"Who?" I asked eagerly.

Onmund reluctantly met my gaze. "Me."

I stopped myself from interrupting by biting my tongue.

His eyes grew more apologetic. "We wrote to one another, you see. We had hoped to attend the college together, but Ulfric wouldn't let me enrol;" a flash of bitterness. "Anyway. She said she dreamed of a war between man and mer, which was nothing new on its own," Onmund frowned. "But this time, she was able to focus on fragments, and she saw me fighting with a sword I could barely lift. She wouldn't say any more in her letter. She was due to start at Winterhold, and she told me she would come to Windhelm first. That she had to _see_ me, _warn_ me, and make sure that I was safe."

"Warn you of what?"

"Of my father's intentions for me. She was," he closed his eyes in regret, " _convinced_ the dream was literal – that Ulfric was going to force me into his army and I would be killed."

The pieces were starting to knit together; with horrified certainty, I asked, "She confronted him, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"And – told him about her dream?" my eyes widened in dread.

"Yes," he bit out, clenching his teeth. "She was used to the way _your_ father did things. Assumed that my father would bend to her will, if she could make him see reason. She assumed that he _cared_ for me. Told him what she hadn't told me; that she was descended from the Septim line, and was thus granted visions of Truth – and that if Septim failed to unite with Stormcloak, all of Tamriel would eventually fall to the Dominion. She was worried her dreams would...become real, if she didn't say anything - and she knew _exactly_ what to say to him, to make him take action."

"Did Ulfric know that you were together?"

" _Yes_ ," Onmund scowled, and left it at that.

"And he still-" I gaped, then withdrew. "Okay. So – he believed her – obviously – and decided that _he'd_ be the one to unite Septim with-?"

" _Obviously_ , yes," Onmund groaned. "She made a deal with him," he seemed to back off; deflated into the bench; stared once again at his hands. His eyes brimmed with wetness, but I couldn't tell if the tears were borne of fear or anger. Perhaps a bit of both.

"She said – let me try remember her words," he tilted his head back; it _thunk_ ed against the stone wall, but if he felt it, he didn't seem to care. "If Ulfric would send me to Winterhold to learn magic at the College in her place, she would remain in Windhelm in mine. That with the blood of the ancient Septims in her veins – the blood of Tiber Septim, I think she said – she would fortify his army against the coming storm."

"And he _believed her_ -?"

" _Yes_."

"Why?!" I gasped, searching Onmund in horror. "How did she convince him she wasn't a raving lunatic?" I cried. "Why would any grown man listen to the nightmares of a sixteen-year-old and-"

"To _punish me_ ," Onmund's voice rose – his eyes darted to me in guilt and anguish. "I could go to the college, just like I'd always wanted," the mage swallowed thickly. "But she would pay the price for my defiance."

"No – that _cannot_ be the only reason," I stammered; my voice left me in a tremble. "And you said _she_ made you come to the college."

"She did," he groaned, leaning forward to place his head in his hands. "I was used to refusing Ulfric but – she begged me to trust her. Swore that she could manage him – no," he dragged his hands down his face, sat back and winced. "That she had been _born_ to manage him."

For a time there was silence, and I found myself nodding shallowly as I attempted to take in and process all Onmund had revealed. There was still a small spark deep within my soul that was reluctant to trust a word he said, though it was weak, for I could not _fathom_ why he would tell me this if he was working for his father.

"But couldn't you have...?" my voice cracked; I hesitated to rethink, and motioned toward him. "You made me look like someone else with a wave of your hand."

"Why didn't I use magic to change my appearance and go get her?"

"Yes," I breathed with relief; prickled that he had understood me at once, for it meant he had asked himself this question before.

He grimaced. "Why do you think there are so many Stormcloaks in Winterhold?"

I could see what he was coming to but still frowned in mute confusion. Ulfric hadn't wanted him to study magic – but now wanted to ensure he stayed here?

"Why do you think there is so much money in the town?" Onmund went on. "That despite my best efforts to fail, they _refuse_ to expel me?" his eyes flickered toward me, backlit by ice-blue flames of deep-seated frustration. "He _pays_ them to keep me in my place. To keep me away from her."

The fire in his eyes somewhat pleased me, as it was hatred for Ulfric that fanned it. Angry Onmund was _far_ easier to deal with than sullen, hopeless Onmund.

"If I disappeared," he continued bitterly, " _she_ would be blamed – she would suffer. Each time she has managed to come to me, he has found out-"

"But she's not with him any more-" I reminded hastily, for I did not even want to _begin_ thinking that Ulfric had been punishing her. I placed a consoling hand on his shoulder – a reminder of the now we existed in – and attempted to locate hope in this thick, stifling terror clogging our corner of the Arcaneum. "You told me, he won't take her back, now the Empire have exposed her. Giselle is on the run, and Vilkas will find her, and hide her. What's to stop you from running away now?"

"You are, actually," he hazarded a sad smile and lifted his eyebrows. "Remember?" he murmured; his gaze fixed on me, but his mind seemed far away. "News of her...official status only reached Winterhold today. Most of the town doesn't even care," he looked in disgust at the window, toward the village I assumed. "These idiots are taken by the wealth Ulfric showers the region in. They're safe and well-fed, so what do they care that anyone risks their life for them?"

"They'll care when you disappear," the fire left me. I felt hollowed out in the absence of another strong emotion to fill the void, but dull worry started to itch at me. Onmund would complicate _our_ departure if we meant to take him with us.

"Good," Onmund sighed, leaning back again to gaze at the ceiling. "I hate this place," he whispered. "I wish..."

I waited, watching as he glanced down to his hands. His fingers clenched briefly, and released.

"What do you wish?" I prompted gently.

Still focussed on his palms, Onmund huffed wearily. "Where does your friend mean to hide Giselle, if he finds her?"

"I don't know," I admitted freely. "But – it's okay," I smiled supportively when Onmund's worried eyes flickered towards me. "Vilkas is _really_ good at keeping secrets, and hiding things."

"I hope so," once again he leaned his head back, blinked at the ceiling, and this time, his eyes stayed closed.

He remained that way for a time. His expression gradually relaxed, making him appear younger, and his breaths filled then left him in long, shuddering tremors.

 _He's trying to calm down,_ I realised. A pang of dismay resounded in my heart. "Tired?" I asked.

He shook his head, but remained otherwise motionless.

I arched an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see it. "You can go to bed if you want," I urged. "I'll be fine here. There's plenty of room for _me_ to stretch out-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Onmund muttered tiredly, though didn't move or open his eyes. "Your housecarl would kick my ass if I left you."

I muffled a burst of laughter with my hand. "I'd tell her I made you go," I covered. "I can be _very_ stubborn when I want to be."

"I'm sure you can. It must be a family trait," he cracked a half-smile but shook his head; his eyes remained closed. "I'm fine – I've slept in worse places."

"Who's being stubborn now?" I murmured and leaned back; shuffled as I arched to get more comfortable.

There was more to learn from Onmund, but what he had revealed so far had seeped all the emotion from me - including the drive to discover more of my sister's past for the time being. Seeing as I had not slept the night before and felt rather blank and hollow now, I was having trouble coming up with a reason to keep my eyes open, because if Onmund was to sleep, I would have only my freshest thoughts and questions for company.

 _A few hours_ , I promised as I let my body relax. My uncertainties settled onto the steadily-growing pile of information to speculate on later, and I wondered if the haze of tired nothingness had come upon me because my body demanded sleep to give my subconscious time to catalogue it all.

 _The sun will wake us when it rises_ , I assured myself blearily.

And I slept.


End file.
